This appeased Mr Lathrope at once.
“Oh! durn it all, nigger, laugh away,” he said, his wrath passing away as quickly as it had risen. “I guess those ken laugh who win;” and he handed Snowball a chaw of tobacco to show that he did not harbour any ill-will.
Leaving their house on the creek—which, by the way, Florry had christened “Penguin Castle,” in consequence of its propinquity to the colony of queer sea-fowl—Mr Meldrum and Mr Lathrope, with Frank Harness, who was also of the shooting party as well as two men to help in carrying back home the fruits of the sport, all pursued their way in company up the valley in a north-easterly direction to the right of the cliff against which the house was built.
The ground here rose gradually as they went along, and the walking became rather heavy after a time, in consequence of the snow having partly thawed and the soil beneath it being of some sort of peaty substance, into which their feet sank deeply at each step.
Presently, Frank, to whom Mr Meldrum had lent a second gun he had brought ashore, saw a bird just like a little bantam cock, which he at once shot.
This bird was pure white, with strong yellowish feet, that were not webbed like those of aquatic habits, rather short wings like those of a game bird, a strong black bill, stout spurs, and a bold black eye, which latter seemed to reproach Frank when he went to pick it up. Mr Meldrum said it was what was called a sheathbill, and not good for eating, which made Frank regret all the more having killed it, especially when its mate hopped up to him presently—as if asking him why he had shot her husband!
It was next Mr Lathrope’s turn, a wild duck flying right over his head; but, somehow or other, “Colonel Crockett’s rifle” didn’t happen to be just ready in time, and the duck would have escaped but for Mr Meldrum’s bringing it down with his right barrel. It was really very curious.
The same thing resulted when a second teal, or widgeon—the wild duck appearing to partake of the characteristics of both varieties—came by. Strange to say, the American’s weapon again missed fire, and Mr Meldrum had to kill the bird with his left barrel. These repeated failures to bring down anything made Mr Lathrope use rather strong language anent the rifle.
“Burn the old thing!” said he; “I can’t make out what’s come over it. My old grandfather’s shot scores of deer with the tarnation weppin, and I guess it’s jest cranky, that’s all. I bet I’ll shoot the next fowl that comes across haar, or I’ll bust it.”
Unfortunately, however, no more ducks were to be seen; but as they ascended a rather steep and bare hill at the back of their own cliff, and somewhat sheltered, like that, from the ocean winds, they noticed one or two little objects, jumping up and down out of holes in the ground and then scuttling back again—not from any alarm at their appearance, but as if only in play, for they did not interrupt their pastime for a moment as the shooting party approached.