The men all looked around. There was no bird in sight. They looked in each other’s faces, for indeed it was a most wonderful incident. All had heard it, and even while they looked there came the cry of “quack, quack,” of a wild duck, and the “quack, quack, quack,” sounded right over their heads. They strained their eyes—there was no duck in sight; indeed, it was not the season for ducks. They were all sportsmen, and they knew that, and yet the flapping of wings was plainly heard, and the “quack, quack,” of the duck, as plainly as a tame duck’s quack on the edge of a farm pond.
“Eh, boys, what does it mean? Who shot the last duck?”
“Who did?” the inquiry went round.
“And why?” asked one.
“Because we are haunted by the ghost of a duck, sure.”
The men were all attention. They had all looked at and watched each other to see who, if any of them had imitated the flapping, and who it was who was doing the quack, quack, business. Not one of the party could be accused. They were all sitting face to face, and in their midst sat Ike. Not a lip moved, and the quack, quack, continued. It was impossible that any one of the party could have worked the trick and not have been betrayed.
“Say, boys,” said one of the men, “this is rather odd, whatever you may say.”
“Mebbe there is a duck in the cabin.”
The captain of the boat, who was very pale and looked quite serious, said:
“There is no duck on this boat, and I don’t like it. I wish you gentlemen would stop your joking. Captain Brown heard a duck quack just before that blow when he and all on board were drowned.”