Unlucky duckling; its life, begun only that summer, had quickly ended.
At last Ned tucked it in the pocket of his hunting-coat, and on they strode, feeling now on the highway to slaughter.
Every few minutes Ned caressingly fingered the warm, soft ball hanging against his left hip. He hoped that it would make a bloody spot on the canvas of the pocket. Although he had done his best, the coat was still altogether too fresh.
No more game fell to his gun that day; but neither he nor Tom cared. They were not to go home empty-handed.
All the way through the streets Ned wondered if people suspected what he was carrying concealed in that pocket; and he bore, without caring, the gibes of sundry hateful urchins:
“Aw, didn’t get nothin’! Didn’t get nothin’! Ain’t he a big hunter, though!”
Tom stayed and helped him clean the teal. They sat in the barn door, and scattered the feathers into the alley, while Bob sniffed and sniffed at their operations. The smell of the duck seemed to revive in his blood old instincts, inherited from his parents, and he was unhappy and puzzled.
“You didn’t kill that all at once, did you?” laughed a man, driving past.
Well, it had not been very big, with the feathers on, and it was very much smaller, with the feathers off. But it was a duck!