THE DUCK HUNT
Thanksgiving Day dawned cloudy and still, with a hint of snow in the
air. Allan slept late, in enjoyment of holiday privileges, and Pete was
banging at his front window before he had finished dressing.
They reached Brown Hall a bare two minutes before the doors closed,
and hurried through a light breakfast. Ten o’clock found them walking
briskly along the Morrisville road, some four miles from college,
having crossed the river by the county bridge and turned to the left
through the little town of Kirkplain, which is opposite Centerport.
Allan wore a white sweater, over which he had pulled an old coat; the
pockets of the latter were bulging with shells. Pete wore a canvas
hunting-coat and carried his cartridges in a belt. The Winchester
was slung over his shoulder, and altogether he made a formidable
appearance. Allan had the shot-gun. Tommy had refused to accompany
them, pleading, as ever, a press of business; Hal had taken himself off
to the bosom of his family.
So far they had seen nothing to shoot at save a red squirrel. Allan had
impulsively sought to bring that down, but had failed for the excellent
reason that he had forgotten to load. The squirrel had seemed to
appreciate the humor of the incident and had chattered in their faces
from the bough of a dead maple-tree. Allan had been glad afterward that
the gun hadn’t gone off.
The blunder reminded Pete of a parallel case in his own experience,
and he had told it so well that Allan had been forced to sit on a
rock in order to recover from his fit of laughter. This story led to
others. Pete proved a perfect mine of interesting narratives on hunting
adventure, some of them laughable, some of them so exciting that Allan
forgot how heavy the shot-gun under his arm had become.
When they struck the cross-roads, some three miles from Kirkplain, they
were in the best of spirits. They took the road to the left, which
leads down to the river and the ferry to Harwich. At the ferry they
left beaten tracks and followed the river-bank.
The travel was slower now, both because they had to break their way
through underbrush, make detours around inlets, cross brooks, and climb
an occasional fence, and because they were keeping their eyes open
for game. Allan had never done much hunting, and he was becoming quite
excited at the prospect.
Pete led the way, forcing his big body through the bushes with scarce
a sound, while Allan could make no progress without causing enough
disturbance to frighten any self-respecting duck a mile distant. Pete
seemed to realize this fact, for he frequently looked back at Allan
with pursed lips and violent shakes of his head, and then glanced
anxiously at the river. After a half mile of this, Pete stopped in a
little clearing and leaned his rifle against a bush. Allan joined him,
very much out of breath.
“See anything?” he panted, hoarsely. Pete shook his head.
A few yards away lay the river, sluggish and leaden under gray sky. At
their backs the ground rose gently, and the reeds and bushes gave place
to a thick growth of trees. A few rods further up-stream was a little
promontory. Everything was very still save for the chirp of the birds
in the woods and the infrequent screech of a locomotive-whistle from
toward Centerport. Across the river and further down-stream the little
hamlet of Harwich nestled under its leafless elms. Pete sat down and
drew forth his corn-cob pipe.
“Might as well take a rest,” he said. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.” Allan didn’t possess a pipe of his own, and wouldn’t
have attempted Pete’s for a ten-dollar bill; the very smell of it
frequently made him faint. Pete stuffed the blackened bowl full of dry
tobacco and lighted it. Then he leaned back on one elbow and puffed
contentedly for a moment. Allan nibbled the end of a grass-blade and
stared across the empty stream.
“This is about the place where we saw those birds the other day,” said
Pete, finally. “Guess they’ve pulled their freight. Sorry!”
“What’s the diff?” asked Allan. “We’ve had the walk. Besides, maybe
we’ll find a gray squirrel if we go back through the woods.”
“Anyhow, I don’t guess there’s any use going farther up the river. What
time is it, I wonder? Did you bring your watch?”
“Quarter of twelve,” said Allan. “Getting hungry?”
“I could eat a saddle!” answered Pete. “Supposing we go back and take
the ferry over to Harwich? Is there any place there we could get a
feed?”
“I don’t know, but I should think there ought to be. Got any money?”
Pete sat up suddenly and searched his pockets.
“Not a red!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to change.”
“Same here,” said Allan, dolefully. Pete picked his pipe up from where
it had fallen and relighted it. Then he threw himself onto his back,
put one leg over the other knee, and chuckled.
“I don’t think it’s so terribly funny,” said Allan, aggrievedly. “We
can’t get home until three or four o’clock. Wish we’d had sense enough
to bring lunch with us.”
“Yes; a half dozen sandwiches and a piece of pie wouldn’t go so bad,
would they? Nice thick sandwiches, with ham or beef inside, and lots of
butter and mustard. And--what kind of pie do you like best, Allan?”
“Oh, shut up, you!”
“I like pumpkin--or, maybe, apple. Yes, apple’s pretty hard to beat.
We’ll have apple; about three pieces each.”
Allan groaned and threw a handful of dried grass into Pete’s face. Pete
brushed it aside and went on:
“When we get the table going, we’ll get Mother Pearson to give us
apple-pie every night.”
“Yes, when you do!” growled Allan.
“Oh, _that’s_ all right, my son. Just because the only fellow I’ve
found wouldn’t join, you needn’t think that table isn’t going to be.
Hal’s going to introduce me to Maitland and Van Something----”
“Van Sciver.”
“If you say so. And Cooper; and I’ll bet you a bunch of cows I get that
table filled up inside of a week. Want to bet?”
“I don’t bet,” said Allan, aggravatingly. “Besides, if I were you, I’d
go slow on betting until I’d paid for that dinner.”
“What dinner?”
“The one you wagered with Tommy.”
“Ginger! I’d clean forgotten that. But _that’ll_ be all right.”
“You’ll lose.”
“Lose nothing! Just you hold your horses and keep your eye on your
Uncle Pete. Let’s think what we’ll make Tommy order for us at that
feed.”
“Let’s go home and get something to eat,” said Allan, irritably.
“Home? Not a bit of it! We’ll find a house and beg a Thanksgiving
dinner, that’s what we’ll do. Saddle up and let’s mosey along.” He
dropped his pipe into his pocket and got to his feet. “There’s bound to
be a house somewhere’s about; look at how the woods have been cleared
out here. Shouldn’t wonder if we found eight courses and a Hinglish
butler.”
“One course’ll do me,” groaned Allan, as he got up, “and I don’t care
how coarse it is.”
“We shot a man out in our county for making a joke like that, and he
was a heap homelier than you-- _Listen!_”
Allan listened. From beyond the little promontory came the unmistakable
quack of a duck. Pete pumped a cartridge into the barrel of his carbine
and tiptoed toward the shore. Allan seized his shot-gun, fell over a
stone, and followed. Pete waved him back, and then returned.
“They’re around that point. We’ve got to go mighty quiet; if we don’t,
they’ll fly. Keep low until you get to the pebbles there, and then get
down and crawl. Come on!”
Allan followed, watching each footstep and trying not to breathe. A
clump of trees came down almost to the water at the point, and hid
what was beyond. But when Allan had, by painfully wriggling his body,
stomach to earth, reached the little expanse of pebbled shore and
Pete’s side, his heart leaped for joy. Before them was a little cove,
and in it, peacefully moving about its surface, was a flock of ducks.
How many there were, he couldn’t tell; there seemed dozens at first. He
threw his gun to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel.
“Hold on!” whispered Pete. “We’ll have to scare ’em up somehow.”
“What for?” Allan whispered, anxiously.
“You don’t shoot ducks in the water, you idiot!” answered Pete. “Here,
I’ll raise ’em with this stone. Be ready and take ’em as they rise.
Wait till you get two together, but shoot quick, and let ’em have both
barrels.”
He dug a small stone out of the sand and aiming at the middle of the
flock, let drive. There was a sensation among the ducks, but not the
panic Pete had looked for. They swam away from the spot where the
stone sank, and made a good deal of fuss, but not a duck took wing.
Pete grunted and threw another rock. The result was the same. The
ducks discussed the matter volubly among themselves and swam around in
circles, but they didn’t show any intention of flying away. Pete was
disgusted.
“I’m going to knock that old drake’s head off,” he whispered. “I guess
that’ll bring ’em up. All ready?”
Allan nodded, clutching his gun desperately and still squinting along
the barrels. There was a loud report, then another, and a third. Two
ducks floated quietly on the water. The others, with wild quacks of
dismay, paddled to shore and disappeared into the bushes.
“Well, of all crazy ducks!” ejaculated Pete, staring after them.
“They--they didn’t fly!” said Allan, breathlessly.
“Fly! Why, the things are clean locoed! They’re not ducks,
they’re--they’re--_I_ don’t know what they are!”
Pete stared about him in bewilderment.
“They didn’t fly, and so I shot,” Allan explained.
“And we only got two!” said Pete, disgustedly.
“But they went up there,” said Allan. “Why can’t we go after them?”
“And shoot ’em on land?” Pete shook his head slowly. “Allan, I’ve done
fool things in my time, but I never shot ducks on land.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” objected Allan.
“Maybe not; maybe you’re used to crazy ducks. I’m not. I refuse to have
further dealings with such--such freaks of nature. How we going to get
those?” he asked, nodding at the dead birds.
“We ought to have brought a dog.”
“Or a rowboat. Well, here goes!” He sat down and took off his shoes and
stockings. Then, with his trousers rolled up as far as they would go,
he waded out into the water. Allan sat down on the bank and promised to
rescue him if he went over his depth. Pete reached the first bird--it
was the drake he had shot, and it lacked a head--and held it up. He
studied it a moment, shaking his head slowly.
“What’s the matter?” called Allan.
“Oh, nothing; nothing at all. Only I never saw a duck like this before
in my life!”
“Why, what’s the matter with--” began Allan. Then the words stopped and
he jumped to his feet.
“Sorry you don’t approve of them,” said a voice behind him, “but
they’re the best I’ve got!”
[Illustration: “Sorry you don’t approve of them.”]