“But there’s the moon,” said Bevis. The moon being about half full, was already high in the sky, and her light continued the glow of the sunset. Restless as they were, they sat still, and took the greatest care in slightly changing their positions for ease not to rustle the dry sedges. Pan did not like it, but he reconciled himself after awhile. Presently Mark, who was nearest the standing sedges, leaned forward and moved the gun, Bevis glanced over his shoulder and saw a young wild duck among the weeds by the shoal. “Too far,” he whispered. It looked a long way. Mark did not answer; he was aiming. Puff--bang! Bow-wow! Pan was in the water, dashing through the smoke before they could tell whether the shot had taken effect or not. The next moment they saw the duck struggling and splashing unable to dive. “Lu--lu!” “Go on, Pan!” “Catch him!” “Fetch him!” “He’s got him!” “He’s in the weeds.” “Look--he can’t get back--the duck drags in the weeds.” “Pan! Pan! Here--here!” “He can’t do it.” “He’s caught.” “He’ll sink.” “Not he.” “But he will.” “No.” After striving his hardest to bring the duck back through the thick weeds, Pan suddenly turned and swam to the shoal where the rushes grew. There he landed and stood a moment with the duck’s neck in his mouth: the bird still flapped and struggled. “Here--here!” shouted Bevis, running along to attract the spaniel to a place where the weeds looked thinner. Mark whistled: Pan plunged in again; and this time, having learned the strength of the weeds, he swam out round them and laid the bird at their feet. “It’s a beauty.” “Look at his webbed feet!” “But he’s not very big!” “But he’s a young one.” “Of course: the feathers are very pretty.” “He kicks still.” “Kill him. There; now we must pluck him this evening. Some of the feathers will do for Frances.” “O! Frances! She’s no use,” said Mark, carrying his bird by the legs. The head hung down, and Pan licked it. Plucking they found a tedious business. Each tried in turn till they were tired, and still there seemed no end to the feathers. “There are thousands of them,” said Bevis. “Just as if they could not have a skin.” “But the feathers are prettier.” “Well, you try now.” Bevis plucked awhile. Then Mark tried again. This was in the courtyard of the hut. The moonlight had now quite succeeded to the day. By the watch it was past nine. Out of doors it was light, but in the hut Bevis had to strike a match to see the time. “It’s supper-time,” he said. “Now they are having breakfast at home, I suppose.” “I dare say we’re quite forgotten,” said Bevis. “People always are. Seven thousand miles away they’re sure to forget us.” “Altogether,” said Mark. “Of course they will. Then some day they’ll see two strange men with very long beards and bronzed faces.” “Broad-brimmed Panama hats.” “And odd digger-looking dresses.” “And revolvers in their pockets out of sight, come strolling up to the door and ask for--”