They fired again, and killed several more of the ducks. They found the birds to be in fairly good condition, though they would be fatter later on.
“They will make fine eating!” remarked Bart, as he held up a string of the wild fowl. “Maybe Fenn won’t like to set his teeth in a nice browned piece of roast duck.”
“Providing he is well enough to eat it,” added Ned.
“Oh, he’ll be well enough,” was Frank’s answer. “But I’d like to get something else besides duck.”
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time yet,” suggested Bart. “Let’s go a little farther.”
Slinging their game over their shoulders, and reloading their guns, the boys once more started off. They had not gone far before a commotion in a clump of underbrush, just ahead of where Ned was walking, startled the lad into sudden activity.
“Here’s something!” he called in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, and it’s liable to come out and shake hands with you, and ask how you like the weather, if you yell that way again,” remarked Frank. “Don’t you know any better than to call out like that when you’re hunting?”
“I couldn’t help it,” whispered Ned. “I saw something big and black. I think it’s a bear.”
“A bear! Where?” cried Bart in a whisper, cocking his gun.