I shook my head as I held out one hand, which was trembling.
“I don’t think I could hit a bird now, Pete, after that upset.”
“Oh, yes, you could, sir,” he cried. “Let’s go on; and I say, if you see my gentleman again, you pepper him, and he won’t come near us any more.”
“I don’t know, Pete,” I said thoughtfully; “the pain might make it more vicious. Let’s get back to the boat. I feel as if I’ve done quite enough for one day.”
I finished reloading my gun as I spoke, so as to be ready for emergencies, and turned to retrace our steps to the rocky descent to the stream, when Pete touched my arm.
“Coming back here to drink,” he whispered.
I forgot all about the shock and nervousness the next moment, as I saw the flutter of approaching wings, and directly after my gun rang out with two reports, while as the smoke floated away, Pete triumphantly ran to where a couple of the orange birds had fallen.
“I say, Master Nat,” he said, “you can shoot. Wish I could do that. You seem just to hold the gun up and it’s done. I knew you could. They are beauties. Something better worth taking back than we had before.”
The birds’ plumage was carefully smoothed, and without further adventure we reached the top of the vast rocky wall and descended to the stream, where we had another refreshing draught close to the mouth of the natural arch through which the water flowed, and then tramped back to the boat, reaching it at sundown, where my uncle was, as I had said, in ecstasies with the beautiful birds we had brought.
I was as pleased, but just then I thought more of the pleasant roast-bird supper and the coffee that awaited us, and paid more attention to these than anything else.