"They only rested a moment or two, and then got ready to start again. Quiver stood up and flapped his wings to attract attention.
"'May I fly with you?' he said. 'I'm afraid I don't quite know the way.'
"They looked at him in surprise.
"'What are you doing away from your home—a young fledgling like you?' they said. 'Come with us if you like, it's your only chance, but you'll probably never get to shore.'
"Oh how frightened he was, and how he wished he'd stayed at home! But he flew away with them, for it was, as they said, his only chance, and what he suffered was something dreadful. And when at last he reached the shore, it was only to drop down and lie on the sands gasping and bruised, and, as he thought, dying. A man that was passing, in a hurry himself to get home before the storm, picked up poor Quiver, half out of pity, half because he thought his little master might like to have his feathers if he died, or to make a pet of him if he lived. And Quiver, who was quite fainting by this time, woke up to find himself lying in a little sort of tool-house in a garden, with a boy about as big as you, Fergus, stooping over him.
"'I don't think he's going to die,' the boy said. 'I've made him a bed of some hay here in the corner—to-morrow we'll see how he is.'
"Poor Quiver felt very strange and queer and sad. It took him several days to get better, and he didn't like the food they gave him, though of course they meant to be kind. At last, one day he was able to hop about and even to flap his wings a little.
"'Now I shall soon be able to fly home again,' he thought joyfully. 'If once I can get to the sea I'll be sure to meet some gulls who can show me the way.'
"And when the boy came to look at him, he was pleased to hear himself said to be quite well again.
"'We can let him out into the garden now, can't we?' he said to the gardener, 'and we'll see if he's such a good slug catcher as you say.'