“I always do it,” he said very cheerfully. He was a tall, pale, meditative man with a smooth, longish, waxen countenance and very dark hair. He was the last word as to toilet and courtesy. “I am glad to have the chance. I love nature.”
“Are those wild ducks I see on the lake flying about?”
“Oh, yes. We have lots of them. They are not allowed to be shot. That’s why they come here. We have gulls, too. There is a whole flock of gulls that comes here every winter. I feed them right out here at the dock every day.”
“Why, where can they come from?” I asked. “This is a long way from the sea.”
“I know it,” he replied. “It is strange. They come over the Alps from the Mediterranean I suppose. You will see them on the Rhine, too, if you go there. I don’t know. They come though. Sometimes they leave for four or five days or a week, but they always come back. The captain of the steamer tells me he thinks they go to some other lake. They know me though. When they come back in the fall and I go out to feed them they make a great fuss.”
“They are the same gulls, then?”
“The very same.”
I had to smile.
“Those two ducks are great friends of mine, too,” he went on, referring to the two I had seen following him. “They always come up to the dock when I come out and when I come back from my row they come again. Oh, they make a great clatter.”
He looked at me and smiled in a pleased way.