“Gettin’ scratched awfully,” growled Wriggs.
“Then you did shoot it,” said Oliver, “without powder or shot?”
“Nay, sir, I lowered the gun down, shoved in a fresh cartridge, and waited like a stone statty.”
“Two stone stattys,” said Wriggs, solemnly. “Speak the truth.”
“Yes, sir, neither on us moved, and I don’t think as we breathed for ever so long, till it humbugged that there bird so as he couldn’t stand it no longer, and he bobs right up on to a high bough so as to peep over and see whether we was there.”
“And were you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Smith, very solemnly, “we was, and he soon knowed it, for bang says my gun, down he come. Billy, as I says afore, goes and picks him up.”
“Yes,” said Oliver, laughing; “and after all that long rigmarole, I suppose it is something I don’t want. Now, then, don’t keep it behind you like that. Let’s see what it’s like. Come, don’t be so childish.”
“All right, sir,” said Smith, giving his companion a wink, and then with a flourish he swung round a shapely-looking Pitta—a hen-bird of very sober plumage—and banged it down on the head of the cask.
“Well, upon my word,” cried Oliver, indignantly. “Here have you two chaps kept me all this time spinning a miserable yarn about a bird that I began to hope was a fine specimen worth having, and then you bring out this!”