A forlorn-looking cottage
with a scrap of ill-tended cabbage garden and a few aged apple
trees stood at an angle where a swift flowing stream widened out
for a space into a decent sized pond before hurrying away again
through the willows that had checked its course. Crefton leaned
against a tree-trunk and looked across the swirling eddies of the
pond at the humble little homestead opposite him; the only sign of
life came from a small procession of dingy-looking ducks that
marched in single file down to the water's edge. There is always
something rather taking in the way a duck changes itself in an
instant from a slow, clumsy waddler of the earth to a graceful,
buoyant swimmer of the waters, and Crefton waited with a certain
arrested attention to watch the leader of the file launch itself
on to the surface of the pond. He was aware at the same time of a
curious warning instinct that something strange and unpleasant was
about to happen. The duck flung itself confidently forward into
the water, and rolled immediately under the surface. Its head
appeared for a moment and went under again, leaving a train of
bubbles in its wake, while wings and legs churned the water in a
helpless swirl of flapping and kicking.
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