A TORPEDO IN FEATHERS 143 



and built a cabin on the shore of the lake. 

 To be sure, the lake was large enough to 

 overlook and forget such a small invasion, 

 but for the loons it was a great matter. That 

 cabin, those voices, and laughter, and axe- 

 strokes, and sometimes gunshots, though 

 almost a mile away from their nesting-place, 

 were a detestable and unpardonable intrusion. 



The loon was just about to resume his 

 fishing a business which, on account of his 

 phenomenal appetite, took up most of his 

 time when once more a movement in the 

 bushes caught his vigilant eye. At the same 

 instant a flash of white fire jetted through 

 the leafy screen, a vicious report rang out, 

 and a shower of shot cut the water into 

 spirting streaks all about him. But he was 

 not there. Inconceivably swift, he had dived 

 at the flash itself. The lead that would 

 have riddled him struck the empty swirl 

 where he had vanished. A lanky youth 

 with a gun stepped out from behind the 

 bushes, stared in sulky disappointment, and 

 presently strolled off down the shore to look 

 for less elusive game. 



The shattered calm of the lake surface 

 had time to rebuild itself before the loon 

 reappeared. A hundred yards away from 

 the spot where he had dived, his head thrust 



