“Fly! Why, the things are clean locoed! They’re not ducks, they’re—they’re—I don’t know what they are!”
Pete stared about him in bewilderment.
“They didn’t fly, and so I shot,” Allan explained.
“And we only got two!” said Pete, disgustedly.
“But they went up there,” said Allan. “Why can’t we go after them?”
“And shoot ’em on land?” Pete shook his head slowly. “Allan, I’ve done fool things in my time, but I never shot ducks on land.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” objected Allan.
“Maybe not; maybe you’re used to crazy ducks. I’m not. I refuse to have further dealings with such—such freaks of nature. How we going to get those?” he asked, nodding at the dead birds.
“We ought to have brought a dog.”
“Or a rowboat. Well, here goes!” He sat down and took off his shoes and stockings. Then, with his trousers rolled up as far as they would go, he waded out into the water. Allan sat down on the bank and promised to rescue him if he went over his depth. Pete reached the first bird—it was the drake he had shot, and it lacked a head—and held it up. He studied it a moment, shaking his head slowly.