It got
frightfully hot with the sun beating on the water, and I simply dared
not put up a sunshade in case of scaring the birds more than I was
already doing, and thereby increasing the wrath of my companion. He
shot a lot of ducks, but evidently not so many as he thought he ought
to shoot, and when he saw the birds all congregated at one corner of
the lake a thought struck him, and he told the natives to take us to
shore. He got out and beckoned me to follow, which I obediently did,
and together we crawled through the jungle, with the _bandar-log_
chattering above us and--for all I know to the contrary--snakes
hissing beneath our feet. If I stepped, which I could hardly avoid
doing sometimes, on a fallen branch, making it crackle, the man turned
on me a glance so malignant I positively quailed. Breathlessly we
crept to the water-side and the unsuspecting ducks, and then
Major Griffiths fired into the brown,--is that the proper
expression?--killing I don't know how many. I don't think it was at
all a nice thing to do, but my opinion was neither asked nor desired.
Even then my friend was not satisfied, and he voyaged about until I
knew luncheon was long since a thing of the past, and I hated so the
shape of his face I could have screamed. When at last we did return, I
found my surmise as to luncheon had been only too correct, and we had
to content ourselves with scraps. The next duck-shoot I attend I shall
choose as companion a less earnest sportsman.
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