Nat Wingate brought his weapon to his shoulder and fired, although the flock was now speeding rapidly away.
A fearful report resounded, Nat staggering back with a howl of pain.
"It's broken my shoulder," he cried, dancing around wildly. "Wow—there must have been a ton of powder in that barrel."
"How did it happen?" inquired Bob, forced to smile, in spite of himself.
"I remember, now, it was loaded twice," said Nat, still rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "I put in a charge while we were roaring and grinning about the wooden ducks and then forgot about it. I guess I never did anything so mechanically in my life."
John Hackett, on this occasion, laughed with more vehemence than any of the others.
"That's a good one on Nat," he said. "It's a wonder the gun didn't explode."
"About as bad as shooting at grasshoppers," grinned Nat. "Christopher! What are those birds over there?"
"Sandpipers," said Dave.
"Some of 'em are goners," declared Hackett; "don't care what their name is."