“Yes.”
“Then fire both barrels this time. Try and get a right and left. Fire!”
Their pieces went off simultaneously the first time; then the major’s second barrel rang out, and Mark’s second directly afterwards, and by sheer luck—ill-luck for the birds—he brought down his first bird from the branch of the tree dead, and in his random flying shot winged one of the others so badly that it fell, and Bruff caught it before it had time to recover and race away.
“Hurrah!” shouted the major as the diminished flock now flew inland over the jungle. “Seven birds, Mark: a load. And you said you couldn’t shoot! Why, it’s glorious!”
“I’m sure it was accident, sir,” said Mark with his cheeks burning.
“Then bless all such accidents say I, a hungry man!”
“Yah!” came faintly from a distance.
“What’s that?” cried the major.
“Yah!” came again, or what sounded like it, for to their startled ears it was more like a savage yell.
“Load quickly,” cried the major, setting the example. “Savages at last. Now, the birds and a quick retreat. Wonder how heavy they are; but save them I will if I have a stand to defend them, and send you back for help.”