The two women stood by the duck-pond. The birds were collected round the brink, waddling and gobbling in the soft bits of mud, and Mrs. Walters was pointing out those she had selected for killing. A large white drake straddled cumbrously about among the members of his family. Inside Nannie’s apron, which she had gathered with one hand into a kind of sack, a fat one, predestined to death, quacked and complained in a voice so lamentable that the mistress had to shout her directions in order to make the servant understand.
“Can’t ’ear ye!” bawled Nannie, “so long as this ’ere thief do go on as he do!”
“Take up the brown one there—no, no—that one by the stone!” cried Anne, pointing to a young mallard who stood motionless, his dully critical eye staring, unconscious of wrath to come, upon his companions.
The old woman stooped and made a dive with her hand towards the mallard, and the duck in her apron lifted up its voice and floundered with all its strength.
“Drat ye!” exclaimed Nannie, giving it a vicious pinch and missing her prey, which, with a calm look, sailed into the water, wagging its tail.
“Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Walters, coming nearer, “give the bird to me and you go and try to drive the mallard back on to the grass. I must have him.”
Nannie’s eye fell on an old wooden box lying open near, and thrusting the duck into it, she turned it over with her foot. The air rang with its outcries. Then she picked up a branch and advanced along the brink to the spot nearest to her quarry. He took little apparent interest until she came level with him, when, with a twirl of his leg, he put an extra yard or so between them.
“Shoo! shoo!” cried Mrs. Walters from the shore.
“That ain’t no good, mum!” exclaimed Nannie, pushing back her sunbonnet with a large gesture; “if ye’d let fly at ’im wi’ that gob o’ mud beside ye ’e might take more notice o’ ye.”