The regret, politely expressed though it was, had the effect of a thunderbolt on both Allan and Pete, neither of whom had heard or seen anything to suggest the presence of a third person on the scene. Allan’s surprise was ludicrous enough, but the picture presented by Pete—mouth and eyes wide open and the headless duck held stiffly at arm’s length, his whole attitude suggesting that the icy water in which he stood had suddenly frozen him stiff—caused even the newcomer to smile a little under his mustache.
The latter was a rather stout gentleman, of middle age, with ruddy cheeks, piercing dark eyes, and an expression of extreme self-possession. He wore a suit of rough gray tweed and leather leggings and carried a shot-gun. At his side, exhibiting two rows of very white teeth, stood a red and white setter. Allan liked neither the gun nor the dog, and envied Pete his chilly, but more distant, position. The newcomer glanced silently from Allan to Pete. It was the latter who found his voice first.
“Those your ducks?” he asked.
The man nodded. Pete looked again at the drake in his hand.
“Oh!” he said.
The dog growled and Allan observed that the man’s gun was cocked and that it was held in a position that was far from reassuring. Pete regarded the man with a puzzled expression.
“Look here, partner,” he asked, “are those tame ducks?”
“They are, sir.”
Pete’s face cleared; a grin overspread his features, and he chuckled aloud as he waded back to shore.
“You seem amused?” said the man, politely but with a note of interrogation.