“Have you always been interested in ornithology?” Meg inquired. “Since I was a small boy,” he responded. “Ah, now look at this . . . careful now.” He had stopped and was peering down into the cushiony grass. “Plover’s nest,” he whispered when Meg stepped softly up beside him. “Can you see the eggs? They’re camouflaged.” “Isn’t it dangerous for them to lay their eggs on the ground?” “Very,” he said straightening. “But nature has an odd and sometimes cruel sense of humor. Somehow the species survives. Move away now, the mother’s coming back.” Meg walked away hastily, hearing the distressed bird call behind her. “Will we have put her off?” “No, so long as we didn’t touch anything.” He dug his hands into his pockets as he walked, lifting his face to the sun. He seemed as at home on the land as on the decks of his ship, Meg thought. “How long will you stay here?” she asked. “On Sark.” “We leave on the dawn tide on Wednesday morning.”
