"My first bernicle!" he said with a thrill of pride. "They're more like a big duck than the heavy lag birds we've already bagged. Do you think Dick will get a shot?"
"He ought to. They were flying straight up the bank."
They waited a few minutes, but no gunshot came out of the mist, and when everything was silent they turned back down the gutter.
"The geese won't alight again," Andrew said. "As Dick knows that, he'll probably launch the punt and come to meet us."
When they reached the edge of the water, Whitney stopped and lighted his pipe.
"It's pretty soft farther on. Let's wait here for the punt," he suggested.
He had nearly smoked his pipe out when they heard the splash of a paddle, and presently the punt crept out of the mist. Its low, gray-painted hull was hard to see; but Dick's form was more distinct and Andrew made an abrupt movement as he watched him. He sat facing forward, on the after deck, and he lurched clumsily from side to side as he dipped the paddle. The punt was not going straight, but sheered about, and Dick did not seem to be making for the bank. This projected in a short cape, not far away, and then the sand ran back toward the east, leaving a stretch of rippling water that vanished in the haze. The tide was rapidly running seaward and the wind blew off the flat.
"Dip to leeward!" Andrew shouted. "Head her up for the point!"
Dick stopped and flourished his paddle.
"I'm not coming ashore," he answered with a chuckle. "Do you good to walk back. Jim's getting fat!"