The two raced down to the wood-shed; all was quiet enough inside. Jack looked round in some astonishment. 'He must be fast asleep yet; I thought he'd have been quacking like anything for some food.'
Tommy was peering into the corner. He got up suddenly with a startled face.
'Jack,' he said solemnly, 'I do believe he's gone and died! See how he's lying.'
Jack had him up in his arms in an instant. He did not know much about dead ducks, but the first touch of the little body, that had been so soft and warm the night before, sent a cold chill right through him. He looked down at it for a minute in speechless dismay, and then he burst out into a perfect storm of sobs.
'Let's go and tell mother,' said Tommy, beginning to cry too; and off they went.
But even mother could not bring the little duck back to life. She quietly put it into a basket, and told Jack to take it up to Farmer Jones, and tell him all about his wrong-doing.
Tommy went with him for company, and the pair felt exactly as if they were going to a funeral; and certainly no funeral they had ever seen went half so slowly, and with so many halts and pauses. Sooner or later, however, they had to get there, and Jack had to falter out his confession as best he might.
'It was because it was such a dear little duck that Jack wanted it,' explained Tommy valiantly, when Jack got to the end. 'We didn't mean to hurt it.'
The farmer listened in grim silence. 'Perhaps not,' he said; 'but I can't have you in my fields again: you'll have to be content with the lane for the rest of the summer, so I'm thinking you'll find it's been a dear duck for you more ways than one.'
'Mother was quite right,' said Jack, as they trudged back down that dusty lane; 'ducks are dreadfully dear things!'