The bird was obviously
drowning. Crefton thought at first that it had caught itself in
some weeds, or was being attacked from below by a pike or water-
rat. But no blood floated to the surface, and the wildly bobbing
body made the circuit of the pond current without hindrance from
any entanglement. A second duck had by this time launched itself
into the pond, and a second struggling body rolled and twisted
under the surface. There was something peculiarly piteous in the
sight of the gasping beaks that showed now and again above the
water, as though in terrified protest at this treachery of a
trusted and familiar element. Crefton gazed with something like
horror as a third duck poised itself on the bank and splashed in,
to share the fate of the other two. He felt almost relieved when
the remainder of the flock, taking tardy alarm from the commotion
of the slowly drowning bodies, drew themselves up with tense
outstretched necks, and sidled away from the scene of danger,
quacking a deep note of disquietude as they went. At the same
moment Crefton became aware that he was not the only human witness
of the scene; a bent and withered old woman, whom he recognized at
once as Martha Pillamon, of sinister reputation, had limped down
the cottage path to the water's edge, and was gazing fixedly at
the gruesome whirligig of dying birds that went in horrible
procession round the pool.
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