“You got him! You got him! Hurrah!” howled Tom, dashing through the water, up over his knees—and boots.
“Hurrah!” cheered Ned, in his wake.
It had happened so quickly that he was quite beside himself. He had no recollection of taking aim. He had no recollection of anything save a feathered blurr in the air, his gun banging—and the feathered blurr had disappeared.
Through the shallow inlet they plashed, reckless of consequences. On the way Ned ejected the empty shell and inserted, with trembling fingers, a new one, to be ready in case the victim should suddenly make off!
The precaution was unnecessary. The victim was past all “making off.” Tom reached it first, where it lay, a shapeless, pathetic little lump of down and quill, twenty yards from the water’s edge, and grabbed it with the zeal of a retriever.
“It’s a wood-duck!” he cried, joyfully.
Ned panted up, and with scant courtesy snatched it from him.
“’Tain’t, either,” he said, scornfully. “It’s a green-wing teal. See there.”
Tom meekly granted the correction as coming from one who owned a new gun and must know.
The boys turned the limp bunch—no larger than a pigeon, but, nevertheless, their first prize—over and over in their hands, marking its every feature.