Nevertheless, Einar picked up all the birds that fell, and stuffed them into his own bag. Ormarr demanded his share.
“Oh, you’ve no bag, and there’s no sense wasting time tying your birds together at every shot. Wait till we’ve done.”
Ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing.
After a while they came to a good-sized rock, with two paths round. Ormarr knew that the paths to the south was the longer.
“Let’s go round and meet on the other side. I’ll go this way,” he said, taking the northern path. And Einar agreed.
When they met, neither had any more birds to show.
“But you fired, I heard you,” said Einar.
“I missed,” said Ormarr shortly. Einar laughed, but he took no notice.
“Look, there’s one sitting on that rock,” said Ormarr suddenly, pointing to a boulder some hundred yards away. “I’ll take him.”
“No hurry,” said Einar; “I’ll bag that one myself. We needn’t go on any longer—I’m going home now.”
“Ah, yes—next time we meet! I’m off. My love to the cattle at home.”
Somewhat to his disappointment, Ormarr did not seem to be greatly annoyed, but merely walked off, calling quietly over his shoulder: “Mind you don’t miss that bird, Mr. Clever-with-your-gun.”
Einar turned round angrily. “Don’t shout like that—you’ll scare it away. That’s my twenty-first.”
“All right. It’s too frightened of you to move. Go and see.”
Einar took careful aim—his hand shook a little, but only because he was inwardly chuckling over the trick he had played Ormarr, and the thought of telling what he had done. Though, indeed, he might get little credit for it all; people were rather apt to side with the lordly folk from Borg. Still, it was good to have fooled that brat Ormarr again.
The bird was sitting close on the rock. Einar fired, and, raising his gun, saw that the bird was still in the same position. Seeing no feathers fly, he thought he must have missed, and loaded again. Then creeping cautiously forward, he rested his gun on a stone, and fired again. The ptarmigan did not move. Einar felt sure his shot must have taken effect. He went right up to it. The bird was dead enough, but what was more, it was cold. And lifting it, he saw a piece of paper tied to one of its legs, with a few words in pencil. “Clever shot, aren’t you? Thanks for a pleasant day’s sport.—Ormarr.”