“Very likely he’s been scratching at the burries too,” whispered Bevis, as the little bats flew round the glade, passing scarcely a yard in front of them like large flies. “He shan’t leave us again like he did this afternoon.”
It was of no use to stay there any longer, so they went quietly round the shore of the island, and seeing something move at the edge of the weeds, though they could not distinguish what, for the willow boughs hung over, Mark aimed and fired. At the report they heard water-fowl scuttling away, and running to the spot Pan brought out two moorhens, one quite dead and the other wounded.
“There,” said Bevis, “you’ve shot every single thing.”
“Well, why don’t you use shot?—you’ll never kill anything with bullets.”
“But I will,” said Bevis; “I will hit something with bullets. The people in India can hit a sparrow, why can’t I? It’s my turn to-morrow.”
But after supper, bringing out his journal, he found to-morrow was Sunday.
“No, I can’t shoot till Monday. Mamma would not like shooting on Sunday.”
“No—nor chopping.”
“No,” said Bevis, “we mustn’t do any work.”
All the while they were on the island they were, in principle, disobedient, and crossing the wishes of the home authorities. Yet they resolved not to shoot on the Sunday, because the people at home would not like it. When Bevis had entered the launching of the raft and the voyage to Serendib in the journal, they skinned the moorhens and prepared them for cooking.