"On the marshes? Yes."
"Could we pot one?"
"Rubbish. We might as well shoot at the stars."
"I never tried that game," said Bill, with mock seriousness. "But I'm goin' to nab a duck. Strike me balmy if I ain't."
"It'll be the guard-room if we're caught."
"If we are caught. Then you're comin'? I thought you'd be game."
I slipped into my boots, tied on my puttees, slung a bandolier with ten rounds of ball cartridge over my shoulder, and groped for my rifle on the rack beneath the shrapnel-shivered joists. Bill and I crept downstairs and stole out into the open.
"Gawd! that puts the cawbwebs out of one's froat," whispered my mate as he gulped down mighty mouthfuls of cold night air. "This is great. I couldn't sleep."
"But we'll never hit a duck to-night," I whispered, my mind reverting to the white-breasted fowl which we had seen in an adjoining marsh that morning when coming back from the firing line. "Its madness to dream of hitting one with a bullet."
"Maybe yes and maybe no," said my mate, stumbling across the midden and floundering into the field on the other side.