village!" he said half aloud, with a surprised suspiciousness. "Why was he going that way?"
The boy rose and went back to the open window. It seemed to him that there was more tumult from the rookery than when he had listened half an hour before, but it occurred to him that this was probably the result of the silence of the hour and his own restlessness. Then, not loudly, but distinctly, in spite of its being muffled by the fog, the sound of a rifle-shot came to his ears.
That settled it for Colin. If there was anything going on in the way of sport he wanted a share in it, and as he was wide awake, he decided to follow up and see what was going on. He slipped into his clothes as quickly as possible and tiptoed his way down the rickety stairs. But before he had gone many steps an unaccustomed thought of prudence struck him, and he walked back to a house three or four doors from where he had been staying, the home, indeed, of the villager who had given him the pet fox, and in which Hank had taken up quarters. He knocked on the window and immediately Hank appeared.
"What is it?" he queried. "Oh, it's you, Colin. Why aren't you in bed?"
"I was," the boy answered, and in a few words he told how he had seen the native go by with a gun and a lantern and had heard the shot fired a few minutes ago.
"Sounds like smugglin'," the old whaler said, after a minute's thought. "Well, there's no great harm in that. That is, I don't think so, though the gov'nment chaps might say different."
"Smuggling?" queried Colin; "poaching. Do you mean seal-poaching? Oh, come along, Hank, and let's find out."
"What's the use of huntin' trouble?" said the old man. "Go back to bed."
"Not much," retorted the boy; "if you don't want to come, I'll go, anyway."