Their bills and feet were grotesque, but there was something about their throats, stretched out in waning iridescence, that asked for regret.
"Oh, much obliged!" Irene cried. "That's awful nice of you, Eddie. Duck cook awful good."
And then her enthusiasm ebbed, for she caught the look of Drury Boldin as he bent down and stroked the glossy mantle of the birds, not with zest for their flavor, nor envy of the skill that had fetched them from the sky, but with sorrow for their ended careers, for the miracle gone out of their wings, and the strange fact that they had once quawked and chirruped in the high air and on hidden waters—and would never fly or swim again. "I wonder if they had souls," he mumbled.
Eddie Crosson winked at Irene. There was no use getting mad at Drury. Eddie only laughed:
"'Course not, you darn galoot!"
"How do you know?" Drury asked.
"Anybody knows that much," was Crosson's sufficient answer, and Drury changed to another topic. He asked:
"Did it hurt 'em much to die?"
"'Course not," Eddie answered, promptly. "Not the way I got 'em. They just stopped sailin' and dropped. I lost one, though. He was goin' like sixty when I drew bead on him. Light wasn't any too good and I just nipped one wing. You ought to seen him turning somersets, Reny. He lit in a swampy spot, though, and I couldn't find him. I hunted for an hour or more, but I couldn't find him and it was growin' dark, so I come home."
Drury spoke up quickly: "You didn't kill him?"