“Hold on!” whispered Pete. “We’ll have to scare ’em up somehow.”
“What for?” Allan whispered, anxiously.
“You don’t shoot ducks in the water, you idiot!” answered Pete. “Here, I’ll raise ’em with this stone. Be ready and take ’em as they rise. Wait till you get two together, but shoot quick, and let ’em have both barrels.”
He dug a small stone out of the sand and aiming at the middle of the flock, let drive. There was a sensation among the ducks, but not the panic Pete had looked for. They swam away from the spot where the stone sank, and made a good deal of fuss, but not a duck took wing. Pete grunted and threw another rock. The result was the same. The ducks discussed the matter volubly among themselves and swam around in circles, but they didn’t show any intention of flying away. Pete was disgusted.
“I’m going to knock that old drake’s head off,” he whispered. “I guess that’ll bring ’em up. All ready?”
Allan nodded, clutching his gun desperately and still squinting along the barrels. There was a loud report, then another, and a third. Two ducks floated quietly on the water. The others, with wild quacks of dismay, paddled to shore and disappeared into the bushes.
“Well, of all crazy ducks!” ejaculated Pete, staring after them.
“They—they didn’t fly!” said Allan, breathlessly.