To his surprise he heard the sullen boom of a gun close by and wondered what any sportsman could be doing out there in that dense atmosphere, where it was impossible to see more than fifty feet away.
Certainly ducks could not be coming to stool under such conditions.
What could he be firing at then?
There it was again, one shot following another in rapid order, until he had counted six.
That would indicate the possession of one of those new style repeating shotguns, capable of holding half a dozen shells, and worked with a pump action.
All of a sudden it struck Darry that possibly someone was in trouble and was taking this means of summoning assistance; though the chances were very slight that any bayman would be anywhere near with that gray blanket covering things—they knew enough to stick to the shore at such a time.
Our hero changed his course a little thinking it could do no harm to look into matters and see what the bombarding meant.
Should it prove that some green sportsman from one of the clubs was lost in the mist perhaps he would be glad of help, and might even promise to pay liberally to be taken ashore in tow.
Just then Darry's mind was filled with an eager desire to make money, for he knew of a good use to which he could put it.
Again as he approached, the rattle of a fusilade came to his ears, followed by a series of shouts in a strained voice.