“Lemonade,” said Mark. Bevis nodded; and Mark fetched and opened a bottle, then another.
“There are only four left,” he said.
“A ship ought to come every year with these kind of things,” said Bevis.
“It ought to be wrecked, and then we could get the best things from the wreck. Shall we do some more shooting?”
“Practising. We ought to practise with ball; but we said we would not till we had a sight.”
“But it’s loaded with shot, and it’s my turn; and there’s nothing for supper, or dinner to-morrow.”
“No more there is. One thing, though, if we practise shooting, we shall frighten all the birds away.”
“Ducks,” said Mark, “flappers and coots, and moorhens, they’re all about in the evening. The sun’s going down: let’s shoot one.”
“Very well.”
Mark got down the matchlock, and lit the match. He went first, and Bevis followed, two or three yards behind, with Pan. They walked as quietly as possible along the path they had made round the island, glancing out over the water at intervals. As they approached the other end of the island, where the ground was low and thick with reed-grass and sedges, they moved still more gently. They saw two young ducks, but they were too far; and whether they heard or suspected something swam in among a bed of rushes on a shoal. Mark stooped, and went down to the water’s edge. Bevis stooped and followed, and there they set up the gun on the rest, hidden behind the fringe of sedges and reed-grass they had left when cutting them for the roof.