He raised his gun, but lowered it again, and looked at me, while I looked at him.
“Was it all a dream?” he said hoarsely.
“Surely not, uncle,” I cried, as I stared about the opening, where not a bird was to be seen.
But we had proof directly that it was no dream, for Pete, who was holding the spare guns, cried excitedly:
“Oh, I say! You’ve let ’em go!”
In the days which followed we were less sentimental, getting, in the neighbourhood of where we had seen them first, specimen after specimen in the most perfect plumage, till we felt that it would be like a crime to shoot down more.
“Let’s get away from the temptation, Nat,” said my uncle, and the very next day we started back, intent now on the one thought of getting our treasures safely home.
We parted from our Indian companions a fortnight later, sending them ashore with our guide’s wound so nearly cured that he could limp about easily. They were laden with presents—Uncle Dick’s patient proud of the grandest prize he evidently thought a man could possess, to wit, the carpenter’s axe; and his wife rejoicing in a leather housewife of needles and thread, a pair of good useful scissors, and my old silver watch, hung by its chain round her tawny neck—her great joy being in a child-like way to hold it to her ear after winding up to listen to its ticking.
Bill Cross made a set of new cases when he reached Port Royal for the careful packing of the skins in our glorious collection, and he and Pete parted from us with every sign of regret.
“I thought my tools might come in useful, gentlemen,” he said, smiling.