Crack! bang! crack! bang! went the shotguns and pistols. Then came a rushing, rattling, roaring sound, and up into the air went what was left of the covey, one partridge, being badly wounded, flying in a circle and then directly for Roger’s head. He struck it with his gun barrel and then caught it in his hands, quickly putting it out of its misery. The other boys continued to bang away, but soon the escaping game was beyond their reach.
“A pretty good haul!” cried Dave, as he and his chums moved forward. “Three here and the one Roger has makes four. Boys, we won’t go back empty-handed.”
“Who hit and who missed?” questioned Sam.
“That would be a hard question to answer,” returned Phil. “Better let the credit go to the whole crowd,” and so it was decided.
“Well, there isn’t much use in looking for any more game around here,” said Dave. “Those volleys of shots will make them lay low for some time.”
“Let’s go into camp and get lunch,” suggested Buster. “I’m as hungry as a bear.”
“Were you ever anything else?” questioned Ben, with a grin, for the stout youth’s constant desire to eat was well known.
They tramped to the south shore of the island, and there, in a nook that was sheltered from the north wind, they went into temporary camp, cutting down some brushwood and heavier fuel and building a fire. Over the flames they arranged a stick, from which they hung a kettle filled with water obtained by chopping a hole through the ice of the river.
“Now, when the water boils, we can have some coffee,” said Roger, who was getting out the tin cups. “And we can roast those potatoes while the water boils,” he added.
“What about some rabbit pot-pie, or roast partridge?” asked Buster.