“Now, Benjy, hand me the rifle and cartridges,” said Leo, after the boat was placed in the shadow of a low bank, “and fetch the game-bag. What! you don’t intend to carry the packing-case, uncle, do you?”
“I think I’d better do it,” answered the Captain, lifting the case by its cord in a careless way; “it might take a fancy to have a swim on its own account, you know. Come along, the birds are growing impatient, don’t you see?”
With a short laugh, Leo shouldered his rifle, and marched towards the first of a chain of little lakes, followed by Benjy with the game-bag, and the Captain with the case.
Soon a splendid grey wild-goose was seen swimming at a considerable distance beyond the reeds.
“There’s your chance, now, Leo,” said the Captain. But Leo shook his head. “No use,” he said; “if I were to shoot that one I’d never be able to get it; the mud is too deep for wading, and the reeds too thick for swimming amongst. It’s a pity to kill birds that we cannot get hold of, so, you see, I must walk along the margin of the lake until I see a bird in a good position to be got at, and then pot him.”
“But isn’t that slow work, lad?” asked the Captain.
“It might be slow if I missed often or wounded my birds,” replied Leo, “but I don’t often miss.”
The youth might with truth have said he never missed, for his eye was as true and his hand as sure as that of any Leatherstocking or Robin Hood that ever lived.
“Why don’t you launch the boat on the lake?” asked the Captain.
“Because I don’t like to run the risk of damaging it by hauling it about among mud and sticks and overland. Besides, that would be a cumbersome way of hunting. I prefer to tramp about the margin as you see, and just take what comes in my way. There are plenty of birds, and I seldom walk far without getting a goodish—hist! There’s one!”