The boys counted the shot-holes, and traced where each pellet had gone in and come out. They agreed that Ned’s aim had been exactly right and that the gun was a wonder.
Into the midst of their pleasure crept an undercurrent of pity which stopped just short of regret.
“Seems kind of too bad, to kill it, doesn’t it,” commented Tom, weighing the wee, cold, bare morsel in his palm.
“Y-y-yes,” admitted Ned. “But I guess he never knew what struck him.”
The wings, with their band of shiny emerald, had been put aside, to keep.
“Here,” said Ned, holding them out to Tom, as that stanch follower was on the point of going home. “Take ’em.”
“No, you keep ’em,” insisted Tom.
“Give ’em to Zu-zu, then,” blushed Ned, as if that was a second thought. “She can wear ’em in a hat.”
Ned was duly congratulated on his success by the family. The duck went to the ice-box, and was roasted and served to him for dinner the next day.