“Very likely he’s been scratching at the burries too,” whispered Bevis, as the little bats flew round the glade, passing scarcely a yard in front of them like large flies. “He shan’t leave us again like he did this afternoon.” It was of no use to stay there any longer, so they went quietly round the shore of the island, and seeing something move at the edge of the weeds, though they could not distinguish what, for the willow boughs hung over, Mark aimed and fired. At the report they heard water-fowl scuttling away, and running to the spot Pan brought out two moorhens, one quite dead and the other wounded. “There,” said Bevis, “you’ve shot every single thing.” “Well, why don’t you use shot?--you’ll never kill anything with bullets.” “But I will,” said Bevis; “I will hit something with bullets. The people in India can hit a sparrow, why can’t I? It’s my turn to-morrow.” But after supper, bringing out his journal, he found to-morrow was Sunday. “No, I can’t shoot till Monday. Mamma would not like shooting on Sunday.” “No--nor chopping.” “No,” said Bevis, “we mustn’t do any work.” All the while they were on the island they were, in principle, disobedient, and crossing the wishes of the home authorities. Yet they resolved not to shoot on the Sunday, because the people at home would not like it. When Bevis had entered the launching of the raft and the voyage to Serendib in the journal, they skinned the moorhens and prepared them for cooking. “This cooking is horrible,” said Mark. “Hateful,” said Bevis; “I told you we ought to have Frances.” “O! no; she would want her own way. She wants everything just as she likes, and if she can’t have it, she won’t do anything.” “There, it’s done,” said Bevis. “What we want is a slave.” “Of course--two or three slaves, to work and chop wood, and fetch the water.” “Hit them if they don’t,” said Bevis. “Like we hit Pan.” “Tie them to a tree and lash them.” “Hard.” “Harder.” “Great marks on their backs.” “Howling!” “Jolly!” They played two games at bezique under the awning, and drank the last drop of sherry mixed with water. “Everything’s going,” said Bevis. “There’s no more sherry, and more than half the flour’s gone, and Pan had the last bit of butter on the damper at tea--” “There ought to be roots on the island,” said Mark. “People eat roots on islands.” “Don’t think there are any here,” said Bevis. “This island is too old for any to grow; it’s like Australia, a kind of grey-bearded place with nothing but kangaroos.” Soon afterwards they drew down the curtain and went to sleep. As usual, Pan waited till they were firm asleep, and then slipped out into the moonlight. He was lounging in the courtyard when they got up. By the sun-dial it was eight, and having had breakfast, and left the fire banked up under ashes--wood embers keep alight a long time like that-- they went down to bathe. “How quiet it is!” said Mark. “I believe it’s quieter.” “It does seem so,” said Bevis.