“He’s pelting the gulls as usual,” said Black Ned.
“A-missin’ of ’em, you mean,” suggested Mitford.
“Hallo, Terrence!” shouted Hayward, catching sight of the Irishman at that moment. “Here! we want you.”
“Comin’, sor, jist wan more shot at this baste. He’s bin flyin’ round me hid for half-an-hour at laste, winkin’ at the stones as they go by him. Och! missed again—bad luck to ye!”
As he uttered the malediction the disappointed man heaved a last stone, angrily and without an attempt at an aim. He did not even look up to observe the result, but turned sharply round towards the camp.
That stone, however, was like the arrow shot at a venture. It hit the bird full on the breast and brought it down, which fact was made known to the sportsman by a cheer from the camp and a heavy thud behind him.
“Well done, Terrence!” cried Hayward as he came up with his prize. “I regard it as a good omen—a sort of turn in the tide which will encourage us on our contemplated expedition.”
The leader then gave minute instructions as to how long they were to be away; how much food they were to take; the direction to be followed, and the work to be done.
“In short,” said the doctor in conclusion, “we must use our eyes, ears, and limbs to the best advantage; but bear in mind that the grand object of the expedition is—”
“Grub,” suggested O’Connor.