“And while we are up a side branch of the river, they may come down the main stream and escape.”
Ching shook his head.
“Fliend say pilate junk hide up liver in cleek.”
“Yes, but—”
“Wait lit’ bit,” said Ching, with a cunning look. “Go up lit’ way, shoot birds, and no lit’ boat come after, no pilate fliend. If come after, plenty muchee pilate fliend, and junk not vellee far.”
“He’s right, Herrick,” said Mr Brooke, nodding. “Turn up the side branch, my lads. Keep up the comedy of the shooting, and have a shot at something.”
“But there’s nothing to shoot at, sir,” I said, feeling rather doubtful of the accuracy of Ching’s ideas.
But as we turned up the narrow branch of the river—a creek not much wider than an English canal, I caught sight of a black-looking bird, which rose from the water and flew away paddling the surface with its feet.
I fired and dropped the bird, but it flapped along, and the men cheered and pulled in chase for two or three hundred yards before it was retrieved.
“It’s a sort of moor-hen,” I said, as I looked up from my captive.