And the next morning, disaster struck.



Novikov Priboy and Nilovoy went hunting, and I stayed to do housework. I swept the floor, plucked and gutted the drakes killed yesterday, and since it was still far from lunch, I sat on the step of the rickety porch and looked at the quiet spring land. The banks of the Vyachka were already beginning to turn green, fluffy like bees, flowers showered willow trees flooded on the gentle bank of the river. The sun flashed on the surface of the water, and the breeze wrinkled the hem, as if it were throwing it over the water and immediately removed the intricately woven lace. And such a silence stood over the earth, as if everything was immersed in a dream in which miracles were being performed that transformed the earth.



Suddenly I saw Novikov the Surf. He was walking towards the hut with a rifle slung over his back. I was surprised by the early return of such an avid hunter, and looking at his face, I realized that something unpleasant had happened. He walked past me in silence. Following him into the room, I asked:



— What happened?



Silych threw the bag on the floor.



— Such a damn thing happened that...



He waved his hand, took out a cigarette case and lit a cigarette.



— And you, anyway, tell me what happened. Where is Pavel Georgievich? Where is "World War II?"



Novikov-Priboy silently pointed to the bag, which I did not pay attention to at first. There was a drake and a duck in the bag. I thought that Silych had killed a wild duck instead of a drake, the spring hunting of which is prohibited, accidentally killed and got upset. I wanted to comfort him and said:



— Probably the duck landed on the water with the drake. You shot a drake and hit a duck.

Silych looked at me strangely and shook his head.



— This is not a wild war, but the "second World War".



— The Second World War!... How did this happen to you?



— I have nothing to do with it... I'm telling you, some damn thing happened... He threw away his cigarette and began to tell me. — Grassroots and I went to Petlin Lake. Ivashkin made two huts there, about two hundred meters from each other. We sat down in these huts. Pavel Georgievich's duck screamed badly. Mine "took" well at first, "besieged" one drake. I hit him. And then, before sunrise, the "second world War" fell silent. I started splashing, preening. It happens like this: the duck will take a break, and then take up work again... Well, I'm sitting, looking at the Grassroots hut. I see he got out of the hut and headed towards me with a bank of bushes. He holds a gun in his hands. At first he walked calmly, looked at the lake, looked at the sky, you know what a contemplator he is, how he loves nature and how he knows how to describe it, then suddenly he bent down and began to creep cautiously. Who did he see, I think? And the Grassroots creeps and steals. Getting closer and closer to me. Sixty paces left to my hut. The grassroots man raises his gun and begins to aim. And I still don't understand who he's aiming at. And suddenly I was scorched by lightning: it was he who was aiming at my duck. my hut is so well camouflaged that Pavel Georgievich did not see it, but mistook the decoy duck for a wild one. I just wanted to jump out of the hut and scream — bang! And the "second World War" ended. Довідайтеся більше про попередніх власників вашого майбутнього авто за допомогою CarDetect .