Alas, you can’t—at least, you don’t. Hen cannot abide such stupidity. Besides, the thing is liable to make off.
“Ain’t you got any eyes? Gee whizz! Gimme the gun. I can pop him from here.”
Give Hen the gun? Well, hardly! You clutch it the tighter, and strain and peer. Now you glimpse him—a tiny chap in a pepper-and-salt suit, busily engaged in pecking at the bark beneath his toes.
“I see him!” you mutter exultantly.
You stoop; Hen stoops. You glide up, making service of covert afforded by tree and bush, and your flasks catch, and sometimes you step on them. Hen, too, glides, just behind, imitating your every movement.
The hour is portentous, but the dare-devil bird braves it and maintains his post at table. Possibly, deceived by your woodcraft (as you fondly suppose), he is oblivious to the fact that yard by yard two boys are drawing closer and closer. You are breathing hard, and to your rear pants Hen, for the advance has been onerous.
“G’wan and shoot! He’ll fly away,” urges Hen, hoarsely.
Yes, you are near enough. No. 4 shot at fifteen yards ought to do the business for that chap. You slowly settle upon your knees, behind the tree trunk which is your shelter, and cock your piece. At the click the “woodpecker” for an instant ceases operations, and flirts his tail inquisitively.
“Darn it—you’ve scared him!” you accuse Hen, who shifts and squirms at your back, in attempts to secure a better view. Hen holds himself in suspense, apparently well-nigh suffocating with the effort. You bring your piece to bear, but it is so long and awkward that you are being worsted in the struggle, when Hen eagerly proposes:
“Lay it on my shoulder!”