"Five of them!" cried Nat Wingate, exultingly. "This is what I call real sport."
"I knew I could do it," remarked John Hackett, with a self-satisfied smile. "I'll bet it was my shot that plunked the head off one of those miserable chunks of wood."
The silence was unbroken for several moments.
"It's too bad we didn't bring anything along to cook with," observed Tom Clifton, at length. "A bit of duck would go well with our lunch."
For an answer, Bob Somers drew out his hunting-knife and severed the head from one of the largest birds, then proceeded to dress it with a proficiency which showed that the operation was not a new one to him.
"I guess we can manage somehow, Tom," he said, with a smile. "But, of course, it means a couple of hours' stay."
The others crowded around him.
"How are you going to do it?" queried Sam Randall, curiously.
"You shall see, presently."
Bob went to the water's edge, scraped together a pile of soft clay and began to cover the duck evenly with it. "You fellows hustle for some dry wood," he said.