When he got there, he peeped through the stems of the bush, and found
that it was not so close as he had hoped--it was scarcely within
gunshot; but the duck had already some suspicion that all was not
well. They are the cleverest birds alive; they had all stopped
feeding, were looking anxiously about, and were beginning to swim
away.
George saw that his only chance was to risk a long shot if we were
going to have any dinner that day, so, pushing his gun through the
bush, he fired at the nearest duck, and, immediately jumping to his
feet, he fired again at another, which by this time was on the
wing--and he killed both.
Of course the dogs and I both hurried down to him in great jubilation.
There were two good fat ducks floating on the little lake. But how
were we to get them? Neither of the dogs was a water dog, and the lake
was really a wet bog, in which a man could neither swim nor wade.
Luckily, there was a breeze blowing, so we went round to the lee side
and sat down to wait for the birds to drift to us. Slowly they came
nearer and nearer, but it was very slow work.
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