He laughed.
“You shot all the tail feathers out of the duck I killed!” he said. “Phe—w—! listen! Throw the oil cloth over the lights,” he whispered.
I did, and we sat in the middle of the river in pitch darkness. Our shots had flushed a big flock of geese. They made a tremendous clatter as they arose from the waters, not two hundred yards ahead of us. They were flying wildly about down the river.
“That’s unlucky,” said the old hunter. “In a few minutes we would have had them.”
It was an hour before we had them again—at least twenty beautiful fellows that flashed into our circle of light. The sight of a flock of geese on the water at night is the most beautiful and thrilling sight I ever saw. In the air they are long-necked, awkward things, but in the water they are the personification of grace and beauty. They ride the waves like a swan, their necks grandly arched and the big band of white under their tails is raised and spread like a white banner in the light. At sight of these not a word was said, as the old hunter moved silently up to them and began the process called huddling them. It took us five minutes to do this, and all the time I sat with my gun on them and my heart thumping like a racer’s in the back stretch. At last three heads crossed in a line. I saw Jackson’s gun in front of me leap to his shoulder, and I fired. They arose with konks and screams and for half a minute every gun turned on them in the air. Then silence and darkness, for the suction of the discharges had put out our lights... And then!—well, we merely fell out of the canoe! for just in the shadow of our lights a flock arose with a noise and splash that set the boat rocking on the waves.
“Bad luck again,” said the old hunter, as he rowed up to and picked up the eight beauties. “We run into the sentry. We’d killed a dozen if we’d only waited.”
“Yes,” I said, while a thrill of genuine sportsman joy tingled me to the fingers; “but one doesn’t want to be a hog! This is enough for one night. Let’s go back to camp.”
TROTWOOD.