My uncle’s gun spoke out again the next moment, the second barrel following quickly, and Ebo ran and picked up another of the lovely kingfishers, and one of a different kind with a rich coral-red beak, short tail, and its back beautifully barred with blue and black like the ornamental feathers in the wings of a jay.
“That is a bee-eater you have shot, Nat, and a lovely thing too. Mine are all kingfishers.”
“There must be a little stream down in that hollow between those rocks, uncle,” I replied.
“No, Nat, I don’t suppose there is,” he said, smiling. “But why do you say that?”
“Because of those kingfishers, uncle. There must be a stream or pool somewhere near.”
“I daresay there is, Nat; but not on account of these birds, my lad. They are dry kingfishers, Nat. They do not live upon fish, but upon beetles, butterflies, and moths, darting down and picking them off the ground without wetting a feather.”
“Why, how curious!” I said. “They have beaks just like the kingfishers at home.”
“Very much like them, Nat,” he said; “but they catch no fish. But come, we must get back to the hut, or we shall never get our birds turned into skins before dark. Look out!”
We fired so closely together that it sounded like one shot, and three more of the great pigeons fell heavily to the ground—part of a little flock that was passing over our head.
Ebo seized them with a grin of delight, for he knew that these meant larder, and then hastening back we had just time to strip and prepare our skins before night fell, when, work being ended, the fire was relit, the kettle boiled, and a sort of tea-supper by moonlight, with the dark forest behind and the silvery sea before us, ended a very busy day.