We need scarcely say that this song was enthusiastically encored, and that the chorus was done full justice to by the audience, who picked it up at once and sang it with lusty vehemence.  At the last word Ben Bolt nodded familiarly, thrust his hands into his pockets, and swaggered off whistling “Yankee Doodle.”  It was a matter of uncertainty where he had swaggered off to, but it was conjectured that he had gone on his journey to anywhere that might turn up.

Meanwhile, Blunderbore had been bobbing his head up and down behind the hummock in amazement at what he heard and saw, and when Ben Bolt made his exit he came forward.  This was the signal for the two bears to discover him and rush on with a terrific roar.  Blunderbore instantly fetched them each a sounding whack on their skulls, leaped over both their backs, and bounded up the side of the iceberg, where he took refuge, and turned at bay on a little ice pinnacle constructed expressly for that purpose.

An awful fight now ensued between the giant and the two bears.  The pinnacle on which Blunderbore stood was so low that the Big Bear, by standing up on its hind legs, could just scratch his toes, which caused the giant to jump about continually; but the sides of the iceberg were so smooth that the bears could not climb up it.  This difficulty, indeed, constituted the great and amusing feature of the fight; for no sooner did the Little Bear creep up to the edge of the pinnacle, than the giant’s tremendous club came violently down on its snout (which had been made of hard wood on purpose to resist the blows), and sent it sprawling back on the stage, where the Big Bear invariably chanced to be in the way, and always fell over it.  Then they both rose, and, roaring fearfully, renewed the attack, while Blunderbore laid about him with the club ferociously.  Fortune, however, did not on this occasion favour the brave.  The Big Bear at last caught the giant by the heel and pulled him to the ground; the Little Bear instantly seized him by the throat; and, notwithstanding his awful yells and struggles, it would have gone ill with Blunderbore had not Ben Bolt opportunely arrived at that identical spot at that identical moment in the course of his travels.

Oh! it was a glorious thing to see the fear-nothing, dare-anything fashion in which, when he saw how matters stood, Ben Bolt threw down his stick and bundle, drew his cutlass, and attacked the two bears at once, single-handed, crying, “Come on,” in a voice of thunder.  And it was a satisfactory thing to behold the way in which he cut and slashed at their heads (the heads having been previously prepared for such treatment), and the agility he displayed in leaping over their backs and under their legs, and holding on by their tails, while they vainly endeavoured to catch him.  The applause was frequent and prolonged, and the two Esquimau prisoners rolled about their burly figures and laughed till the tears ran down their fat cheeks.