"Why—why—whatcher mean?"
"Mean! Mr. Alexander Duff M'Intyre, bushman, waterman, sportsman, and naturalist by profession, but only a Scotch mixture of bat an' mole for all that! Why——"
"Do you mean to insinuate, Joe Blain, that yon's not a mob of wood-duck?"
"Yes; and ready to swear to it till all's blue. I did think you knew the difference between a duck of any sort and a plover!"
"You call 'em plov——?"
Here one of the birds stretched its neck, flapped its wings, gave a hop and a short run, plover-ways, and finished with the typical harsh note.
"Great Donald! you're right, man!" finished the boy, in a mortified tone and with a considerable amount of disgust.
"Oh, well," he resumed, after a moment's silence, "a few plover won't come amiss, especially if we don't collar any more duck. Like 'em myself, grilled, as well as anything; they've such plump little breasts. Pull on, Joe."
Joe made for the spit, coming in so quickly with a few quiet but vigorous strokes that Sandy was able to get in a pot and a flying shot, accounting for no fewer than five.
"I vote," exclaimed that youth, when they had bagged the plover, "that we pull into the mouth of 'Skeeter Crick, tie up to the bank, an' stalk the crick for a mile or so; then we can cross over to the scrub by the old tree. We'll chance to get a pigeon or two, or I'm mistaken. P'r'aps we'll have better luck with the ducks on our way back. Never saw 'em so scarce on the Crocodile before."