He had climbed quite to the extremity of the wing and was about to tie his first rope, when a fierce gust of wind threatened to tear him from the rigging and crash him to the ice, a dangerous distance below.  With a quick clutch, he saved himself but lost the rope.  It was with a grunt of disgust that he saw it wind and twirl toward the white surface below.  Then it was, for the first time, that he saw the yellowish-white object huddled there on the ice waiting.

“A bear!” he groaned, and instinctively reached for his automatic.

But at that instant there came a fresh swoop of wind that set the plane gyrating more violently than ever.

Clinging grimly to the bars, Bruce felt the wing swing down, down, then in toward the bear, till it seemed it must crash into the great creature.  Before the plane rose Bruce felt a chill run down his spine.  Not ten feet beneath him was the savage face of the bear.  All his gleaming white teeth showed in an ugly grin, as he stood on his haunches one mighty fore-paw raised in air, like a traffic policeman signaling a car to stop.

Then again the wing whirled to dizzy heights.  Bruce was now quite ready to climb back the length of the wing and depart for camp to summon assistance.  But to loosen his grip, even of one hand for an instant, was to court death.  Again he felt the sickening sink of the plane, as if it were an elevator-car loosed from its cable.  And this time, he felt instinctively, the wing would scrape the ice.  And the bear, if he were still there?  Well, there was going to be a crash and a general mix-up.

Bruce had been a football player in his day and was aware that there were times, if one were at the bottom of the heap, when relaxation was the play.  As far as his position made it possible, he relaxed.  And, in the meantime the plane swept downward.

For one fleeting instant he saw the white traffic cop of the Arctic wilderness still standing with paw upraised.  Then everything was a blinding, deafening crash of ice and snow, wood, canvas and white bear.

Bruce gathered himself up some rods from the scene of the crash.  Relaxed as he was, he had rolled like a football over the ice and had escaped with a few bruises.  But the plane?  As he caught a fleeting glimpse of it disappearing in the murky fog, he felt sure that it would take days, perhaps weeks, to repair it.

“And the worst is not yet!  She’s still swinging!” he groaned, rising stiffly.

But immediately his mind was turned to the white “cop.”  How had he fared?  The boy felt for his automatic.  Fortune favored him; it was still in his holster.  This was well, for the white bear, very much shaken but still game, having wrought further havoc with the debris left by the demolished wing, was charging down upon him.

Standing his ground, Bruce waited until the bear was within six paces.  One stroke from that giant paw would end the struggle.  His aim must be true and certain.  Suddenly his hand went to his side for a hip-shot.  Put-put-put-put.  Four bullets smashed into the bear, bringing him to a standstill.  Put-put-put-put.  With a roar, the bear sank to the ice.  In a second he was dead.