Run up--everybody pleasurably excited--to the front of the ship. See a black-looking head of something swimming toward a large ice floe about 500 yards in front of us. As we approach the head reaches the floe, then a big yellowish paw comes out upon the ice, then the shoulders, and finally the whole bear. The officers hurry forward, each with a gun. Soon men all there. Some one fires. Bear stands broadside watching us. The bullet goes way over. Then other shots--still missing--water spouting high in many places. Bear bewildered, does not know what to do, lopes off a little here and there, stops again, looking at us, and now--we are less than 100 yards from him it seems--a bullet strikes him above the loin--we can see him jerk and the red spot following. He runs clumsily, but other shots follow, some seemingly taking effect, and then he drops, first on his belly, then, twisting, turns over on his back. A few more movements with his paws and head, and he lies still, quite dead. Can not but feel sorry for the poor bear, who did not know why he was being killed, and had no chance. A motor boat is lowered and goes to get him. They find on the floe the remains of a seal on which he fed. Tie a rope to him, drag him into the water, tow him to the _Bear_, which has stopped and where all stand on the bows in expectation and with all sorts of cameras, and prepare to hoist the brute aboard. Captain says it is the second case of this nature in 20 years. Ropes are fastened about the big body, attached to a winch, and the big limp form is hauled up, though not without some difficulty, due to its size and weight. All stand about him, examine, photograph. They will let the natives at Wainwright skin it and give them the flesh. It is a middle-sized, full-grown male. It shows only two wounds, the one in the side and one where the bullet passed through his mouth, knocking out one of the canines. Cold--must put on second suit of underwear. Very gloomy, but storm abated. No land in sight--above Cape Lombard all is flat. It rains in that direction. We meander among the floes, now and then bumping and shivering. Should a wind come up and blow the ice landward we would be in danger of being closed in and stopped or delayed. Evening. Arrive off Wainwright. Village recent--older site 20 miles away. People the usual type of Eskimo. Visit the village, but soon return. After supper the boat stops--fear the ice. Another passenger is added here, Jim Allen, the local trader, with a bagful of white fox skins and a bear skin. Conditions becoming a bit crowded. Sunday, August 1. No movement to-day. They are apprehensive of the ice, and so we stay here, the one place of all where there is nothing for me to do. Of course there are the natives, but with the constant uncertainty as to when we shall start and a lack of facilities I can not do much with them.