"I'm not sleeping
neither," he continued. "Did you see the wild ducks to-day?"
"On the marshes? Yes."
"Could we pot one?"
"Rubbish. We might as well shoot at the stars."
"I never tried that game," said Bill, with mock seriousness. "But (p. 133)
I'm goin' to nab a duck. Strike me balmy if I ain't."
"It'll be the guard-room if we're caught."
"If _we_ are caught. Then you're comin'? I thought you'd be game."
I slipped into my boots, tied on my puttees, slung a bandolier with
ten rounds of ball cartridge over my shoulder, and groped for my rifle
on the rack beneath the shrapnel-shivered joists. Bill and I crept
downstairs and stole out into the open.
"Gawd! that puts the cawbwebs out of one's froat," whispered my mate
as he gulped down mighty mouthfuls of cold night air. "This is great.
I couldn't sleep."
"But we'll never hit a duck to-night," I whispered, my mind reverting
to the white-breasted fowl which we had seen in an adjoining marsh
that morning when coming back from the firing line. "Its madness to
dream of hitting one with a bullet."
"Maybe yes and maybe no," said my mate, stumbling across the midden
and floundering into the field on the other side.
We came to the edge of the marsh and halted for a moment. In front of
us lay a dark pool, still as death and fringed with long grass and
osier beds. A mournful breeze blew across the place, raising a (p. 134)
plaintive croon, half of resignation and half of protest from the
osiers and grasses as it passed.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101