“Catch it!” cried Squdge, starting after it with leaps and bounds; and—“Catch it! catch it!” cried the others, running after him as fast as they could. Their mother’s words were all forgotten.
On and on they went, leaping and snatching, and sometimes falling over each other in their hurry. At last their chase led them out into a road, and then the fly rose straight up over their heads, up and up until it was lost to sight in the sunlit air. The ducklings stood gaping after it hungrily.
“Hey there, you young ’uns! What do you think you’re doing?” asked a rough voice.
The ducklings started.
Before them, in the road, stood a ragged, impudent-looking, half-grown chicken.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked again.
“Oh, if you please, sir, we were trying to catch a fly,” answered Queek rather timidly.
“A fly! What did you want to catch a fly for?”
“We thought we’d eat it.”