Another half-hour was passed of what Oliver dubbed the most aggravating natures for beautiful specimens of bird, insect, flower, and mineral abounded, while the whole of their attention had to be devoted to providing food.
“I don’t believe there are any deer to be had,” he cried at last, and then he stopped short in the sunny grove, where they had halted to take a few minutes’ rest. “What’s that?”
“I was going to ask you,” said Panton.
For the peculiar noise they had heard upon a former occasion came from a short distance away, deep-toned, soft, and musical, as if a tyro were practising one note upon a great brass instrument.
“Quick, come on,” whispered Oliver, excitedly, and leading the way he signed to his companions to come on abreast, and in this form they went on cautiously in the direction of the sound, till Drew suddenly took a quick aim through an opening, and fired both barrels of the piece in rapid succession.
Instantly there was a tremendous beating of wings, and a little flock of half-a-dozen large, dark birds rose up, affording Oliver and Panton each a shot, with the result that a couple of the birds fell heavily.
Then the two men behind cheered, there was a rush forward through the thick growth, and four of the huge crowned pigeons were retrieved—lovely dark slate-coloured birds, which looked with their soft, loose plumage and beautiful crests, nearly double the size of ordinary farm-yard fowls.
“Now,” cried Oliver, triumphantly, “back with you to the fire, and pluck and cook those. We will be with you in a couple of hours’ time. But I say, Panton, you won’t eat half-a-dozen?”
The two men seized a bird in each hand, grinning with delight, and started off for the edge of the wood at a run, but Smith stopped and turned.
“Byled or roast, sir?” he cried.