“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed Tom.
“Do you want me to punch your head, Tom?” roared Dick, turning scarlet.
“Nay, lads, don’t spyle a nice bit o’ sport by quarrelling,” said Dave, sending the boat rapidly homeward. “I wean’t laugh at you no more, Mester Dick. I like you for it, lad. It do seem cruel; and sometimes when I weer younger, and a bud looked up at me with its pretty eyes, as much as to say, ‘don’t kill me!’ I would let it go.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Dick with a sigh of relief.
“But what did that bud do, lad? If it was a piewipe, go and kill hundreds o’ worms, and snails, and young frogs; if it was a heron, spear fish and pick the wriggling young eels out of the mud. No, lad, it wean’t do; buds is the cruellest things there is, pretty as they are—all except them as only eats seeds. Everything ’most is cruel; but if they wasn’t the world would get so full that everything would starve. We’ve got say fourscore pie-wipes—not for fun, but for wittles—and what’s fourscore when there’s thousands upon thousands all about?”
“Why, Dave, you’re a philosopher!” said Dick, who felt relieved.
“Yes,” said Dave complacently, but with a very foggy idea of the meaning of the word; “it’s being out so much upon the water. Now, there’s a nice couple o’ ducks swimming just the other side o’ them reeds, as a lad might hit just as they rose from the water when we come round the corner; and I’d say hev a shot at ’em, Mester Dick—on’y, if I did, it would hurt your feelings.”
Dick was silent for a moment or two as he tried to keep down his human nature. Then he spoke out:
“I beg your pardon, Dave, after what you did for us. May I take up the gun?”
“Ay. Steady, lad!—keep her head over the stem, and I’ll turn the boat round and send you along gently. Now you lie down on your chesty and rest the barr’l on the net, for she’s too heavy for you to handle. Then wait till the ducks rise, and let go at ’em.”