DICK, WITH THOSE two gun-shots echoing in his head, could think of nothing but his birds. He thought of the great birds bleeding in the water, picked up by Mr Jemmerling and his man, their necks wrung, carefully, so as not to spoil them as specimens, to be shown in a glass case, the first Great Northern Divers ever known to nest in the British Isles, with their eggs, their eggs that would never hatch, blown, dead, empty shells. If only the Sea Bear had never come in to that wild anchorage the birds would have been safe. If only he had never seen them . . . If only he had not wanted so badly to be sure that he was not mistaken . . . If only he had never shown his drawing to the egg-collector . . . If only . . . He ran, almost choking with misery, down into the valley, making straight for the place where he had run aground in the folding boat and been captured by that grey-bearded giant of a Gael. There was no reason in this, no plan. Simply, that place was the nearest to the island.
He could see the folding boat, with the two men in it, a long way out on the loch. Just for one moment he thought that perhaps, after all, they had failed to find the nest. But the birds were dead and had nested in vain whether the eggs were taken or not. And of course the eggs would be taken. Of course the murderers had made sure of the birds first, lest they should fly away. And only now, after killing the birds, were they rowing to the island to steal the orphaned eggs.
The men were having difficulty with the boat, the same difficulty that Dick had had himself. They were finding it hard to keep it on a course. All the same, they were close to the island before Dick came down to the shore of the loch. There was nothing he could do. Watching miserably through the binoculars he saw the boat ground. They must have seen where the bird had been sitting for they had brought the boat in only a few yards away. One man was holding her steady while the other, the egg-collector himself in his mustard-coloured clothes stepped out with a square box of some kind that he carried by a handle or a strap. A moment later, Mr Jemmerling was stooping over the actual nest. The thing was done. The first Great Northerns ever known to nest on British soil were dead, and their eggs were to be part of the Jemmerling Collection. It was too late to do anything to help them. Dick looked desperately round and could see none of his allies. The McGinty, Captain Flint, the Gaels and the crew of the Sea Bear had disappeared. He was alone, watching the last act of a tragedy that he knew was all his own fault.
‘Heuch! Heuch! Heuch!’
Dick stared about him. No other bird could make that yelping cry.
‘Heuch! Heuch! Heuch!’
One of the birds must be still alive. Dick dropped instantly to the ground, taking what cover he could from a boulder and a tussock of rank grass. Once more, as on that first day, he was a bird-watcher, though he could not see the bird. And on that first day he had been watching birds that had no enemy. They had been quietly fishing or sitting undisturbed on their eggs. Now, everything was different. The peace of the loch had been broken by gun-shots. That cry was not the laughing ‘Hoo! Hoo!’ of one bird talking to another, but the harsh, guttural ‘Heuch!’ of a bird in fear.
Suddenly, between himself and the island, he saw a black spot moving on the water. He had the binoculars on it in a moment and saw that it was a bird’s head, the head of one of his Divers. He could see the barred half-collar under the chin and the wider barred collar further down. The bird was swimming fast, showing only its head and neck. Wounded, he thought, dying and sinking as it died. But perhaps not. He remembered seeing startled grebes on the Norfolk Broads swimming just like that, with their whole bodies under water. It might be only frightened. That beast, that murderer, might have used both barrels to kill the other bird and this one might have had time to get away out of range. But what was the good of that? Widow or widower, it had lost its mate. It had lost its eggs. At that very moment Mr Jemmerling’s cheeks might be puffing out as he blew first one of those great eggs and then the other and so made sure that the Great Northern Divers had nested on the island in vain. Dick turned his glasses on the island. He could see the sailor waiting in the boat and Mr Jemmerling kneeling on the ground, packing something into his box.
‘Heuch! Heuch! Heuch!’
Dick stared towards the head of the loch. That cry could not have come from the bird swimming in the water.
‘Heuch! Heuch! Heuch!’
A huge bird was flying fast and low over the loch. Lower and lower it flew. There was a long line of splashes, a sudden silence. Another Great Northern Diver was swimming towards the first and Dick knew that the egg-collector had missed with both barrels. Almost, Dick jumped to his feet, but he remembered in time. The two birds were swimming to meet each other. Dick found he could not see them. He put down the binoculars, tore off his spectacles, wiped them as quickly as he could, put them on again, grabbed the glasses once more and, as he lifted them, saw that others beside himself had heard those cries and seen the long, white splashing furrow ploughed by the second bird as it came down on the surface of the loch.
The man in the boat was pointing. Mr Jemmerling was hurriedly strapping down the lid of his box. They had seen the birds. A moment later, Mr Jemmerling was in the boat and the boat was leaving the island. Dick knew that, with the eggs safely in his box, Mr Jemmerling was going to do his best to get once more within gun-shot of the birds he had robbed. This time he would not miss.
The boat was coming directly from the island towards Dick and towards the two birds which, both with only their heads and necks showing above water, were swimming side by side, this way and that.
‘They’re only thinking about their eggs,’ Dick murmured to himself, ‘waiting to get back to their nest when those beasts have gone.’
But the beasts, instead of going, were coming after the birds. At first, the sailor was pulling, with his back towards Dick, and Mr Jemmerling was sitting in the stern. Then the boat stopped and Dick saw that the sailor was turning it round. Perhaps, after all, they were going to leave the birds alone and go away. But no. The folding boat was pointed at both stem and stern and, as soon as he had turned her, the sailor began backing water, bringing the boat along stern first and Dick saw that Mr Jemmerling was crouching in the bottom of the boat, with a gun ready, lying across his arm. The sailor was backing the boat gently towards the swimming birds and, worst of all, the birds, worried about their nest, seemed hardly to realize that they were themselves again in danger. Those two heads, showing above the surface of the water, were moving to and fro, as if driven by the boat, coming gradually nearer to the shore where Dick lay helplessly watching. It was as if they did not want to go further from the island than they could help.
Nearer the birds came and nearer yet and all the time the boat was gaining on them. Dick’s hands were shaking. Again and again he lost sight of the birds while doing his best to keep the glasses trained upon them. What ought he to do? If he showed himself he might send the birds, taking him for a new enemy, swimming straight to their deaths. If he did not show himself and the birds did not fly or swim out of danger the boat would soon be near enough for Mr Jemmerling to shoot at them and it was too much to hope that he would miss a second time. Once or twice the birds went under water but each time they came up the boat was nearer. Dick found himself desperately wondering what was the range of a shotgun. He knew nothing whatever about that kind of shooting but did know something about the length of rifle ranges. Three hundred yards, five hundred . . . The boat was already much nearer than that. It couldn’t be more than a hundred yards from the birds. Less than that. Much less. Mr Jemmerling, crouched low in the boat, was stealthily moving his gun. He was going to shoot. He was going to shoot now. Dick leapt to his feet and, his throat still sore from making all that noise in prison, yelled as loud as he could and waved his arms like a windmill. Both birds dived under water, came up again far away and, with two long rows of splashes, rose into the air and flew away towards the upper loch.
‘You little FOOL!’ roared Mr Jemmerling.
At that moment a whistle shrilled near the foot of the loch. Dick heard it, and saw people crossing the stream beyond the reed-beds. Some had already crossed.
Mr Jemmerling and the sailor saw them too. The sailor stopped backing water and began rowing as hard as he could for the opposite shore, nearly jerking Mr Jemmerling off his balance as, holding his gun in one hand, he shook his other fist at Dick and turned to sit down once more in the stern of the boat. The hunters had become the hunted and knew that if they were not quick their retreat to the Pterodactyl would be cut off. Dick crammed the binoculars into their case and ran, a new hope leaping in his heart. Those were his allies working round the foot of the loch. He had seen the red caps of Nancy and Peggy. And the Gaels, wherever they were, were allies too. The birds were not dead. If only the allies could catch Mr Jemmerling and not let him escape to his boat, if only Mr Jemmerling had not blown the eggs, if only he, Dick, could take the eggs back to the nest before the birds came back after being frightened away, there was a chance, just a chance that the Great Northern Divers might yet hatch their eggs on the island they had chosen.
Dick fell, leapt up, ran and fell again, stumbling over tussocks of grass and rocks along the shore of the loch. Every time he looked over his shoulder to see how far the boat had gone, he fell over something or other if not over his own racing feet. But he saw enough to know that the boat was not making very good headway. He knew himself how hard it was to keep that boat on any steady course and that trying to move fast made it harder. He knew that the boat must be sheering this way and that and that the sailor must be having the same difficulties that he himself had had earlier in the day. He was thankful now that it was the folding boat that they had brought to the loch and not the more manageable dinghy. Now and again he heard a whistle. Now and again he caught a glimpse of people moving along the further shore. Would they be in time or would they not? And even if they were he knew it would be no good if he himself were not there too. They might stop the egg-collector, but not one of them would think of taking the eggs back to the nest. He must get there. Every minute mattered. But the eggs might be blown. The egg-collector and his man might beat the allies, get to the shore before the allies were there to meet them, get down to the creek before they could be stopped, and be off to the Pterodactyl and away. But they might not. The eggs might not be blown. There was a chance yet. Dick came to the foot of the lake, splashed across the stream, saw that the boat far up the lake was just coming in to the shore, set his teeth together and ran and ran and ran.