"That's right, that's right," agreed Scotch, who admired Frank more than he wished to acknowledge. "He's lucky."
"It's not all luck, profissor," assured the Irish boy. "In minny cases it's pure nerve thot pulls him through."
"Well, there's a great deal of luck in it—of course there is."
"Oh, humor the professor, Barney," laughed Frank. "Perhaps he'll become better natured if you do."
They now came to a region of wild cypress woods, where the treetops were literally packed with old nests, made in the peculiar heron style. They were constructed of huge bristling piles of cross-laid sticks, not unlike brush heaps of a Western clearing.
Here for years, almost ages, different species of herons had built their nests in perfect safety.
As the canoe slowly and silently glided toward the "rookeries," white and blue herons were seen to rise from the reed-grass and fly across the opens in a stately manner, with their long necks folded against their breasts, and their legs projecting stiffly behind them.
"Pwoy don't yez be satisfoied wid a few av th' whoite wans, Frankie?" asked Barney, softly. "Shure, they're handsome enough."
"They're handsome," admitted Frank; "but a golden heron is worth a large sum as a curiosity, and I mean to have one."
"All roight, me b'y; have yer own way, lad."