“How much farther is it?” he said at last.
“Good mile and a half,” said Tom; “but it’s fine going. I say, look at the golden smoke. It must be at Dave’s, eh?”
“Yes, it’s there, sure enough. Oh, Tom, suppose some one were to burn down the duck ’coy!”
“It wouldn’t burn so as to do much harm. Look, there goes a flock of plovers.”
They could just catch the gleam of the wings in the dark night, as the great flock, evidently startled by the strange glare, swept by.
“I say!” cried Dick, as they dashed on as rapidly as the birds themselves.
“What is it?”
“Suppose poor Dave—”
“Oh, don’t think things like that!” cried Tom with a shudder. “He’d be clever enough to get out. Come along. Look at the sparks.”
What Tom called sparks were glowing flakes of fire which floated on, glittering against the black sky, and so furiously was the fire burning that it seemed as if something far more than the hut and stacks of the decoy-man must be ablaze.