"They wanted, it seems, a polar bear at the Zoo, because all zoos have them, and this one must keep up with the procession. It would be inspiring and educating for the little children on Sunday afternoons--and so the thirty pieces of silver were raised. The chase began among the icebergs in a steam-launch. The father and mother in their soft white overcoats--the two baby bears in powder-puff furs--were having a frolic on a cake of floating ice when the strange craft surprised them. The mother bear tucked the babies behind her and pulled herself together to defend them with her life--and did--until she was bowled over by a rifle ball which went crashing through her skull. The father bear fought on as long as he could, dodging the lasso, encouraging the babies to hurry--sweeping them ahead of him into the water, swimming behind, urging them on, until the three reached the next cake. But the churning devil of a steam launch kept after them--two armed men in the bow, one behind with the lariat. Another plunge--only one baby now--a staggering lope along the edge of the floe, the little tot tumbling, scuffling to its feet; crying in terror at being left behind--doing the best it could to keep up. Then only the gaunt, panic-stricken, shambling father bear--slower and slower--the breath almost out of him. Another plunge--a shriek of the siren--a twist of the rudder--the lasso curls in the air, the launch backs water, the line tautens, there is a great swirl of foam broken by lumps of rocking ice, and the dull, heavy crawl back to the ship begins, the bear in tow, his head just above the water. Then the tackle is strapped about his girth, the 'Lively now, my lads!' rings out in the Arctic air, and he is hauled up the side and dumped half dead on deck, his tongue out, his eyes shot with blood. "You can see him any day at the Zoo--the little children's noses pressed against the iron bars of his cage. They call him 'dear old Teddy bear,' and throw him cakes and candies, which he sniffs at and turns over with his great paw. As for me, I confess that whenever I stand before his cage I always wonder what he thinks of the two-legged beasts who are responsible for it all--his conscience being clear and neither crime, injustice, nor treachery being charged against him. Yes, there are two sides to this question, although, as Louis has said, it might have been just as well to have thought about it before. Speak up, Lemois, am I right or wrong? You have something on your mind; I see it in your eyes." "It's more likely on his stomach," interrupted Louis; "the pigeon may have set too heavy."