"To poets and epicures, perhaps, the lordly canvas-back--though brown
from the oven, I challenge the supercilious _gourmet_ to distinguish
between his favorite, and a fat American coot. But for me the
loud-voiced mallard, with his bottle-green head and audaciously
curling tail; for he will decoy."
I am quoting Sandford. Be that as it may, we are there, amid
frost-browned rushes that rustle softly in the wind: a patch of
shallow open water, perhaps an acre in extent, to the leeward of us,
where the decoys, heading all to windward, bob gently with the slight
swell.
"Now this is something like sport," adds my companion, settling back
comfortably in the slough-grass blind, built high to the north to cut
out the wind, and low to the south to let in the sun. "On the point,
there, this morning you scored on me, I admit it; but this is where I
shine: real shooting; one, or a pair at most, at a time; no
scratches; no excuses. Lead on, MacDuff, and if you miss, all's fair
to the second gun."
"All right, Sam."
"No small birds, either, understand: no teal, or widgeon, or
shovellers. This is a mallard hole. Nothing but mallards goes."
"All right, Sam."
"Now is your chance, then.... _Now!_"
He's right. Now is my chance, indeed.
Over the sea of rushes, straight toward us, is coming a pair, a single
pair; and, yes, they are unmistakably mallards. It is feeding time, or
resting time, and they are flying lazily, long necks extended,
searching here and there for the promised lands. Our guns indubitably
cover it; and though I freeze still and motionless, my nerves stretch
tight in anticipation, until they tingle all but painfully.
On the great birds come; on and still on, until in another second--
That instant they see the decoys, and, warned simultaneously by an
ancestral suspicion, they swing outward in a great circle, without
apparent effort on their part, to reconnoitre.
Though I do not stir, I hear the _pat!_ _pat!_ of their wings, as they
pass by at the side, just out of gunshot. Then, _pat!_ _pat!_ back of
me, then, _pat!_ _pat!_ on the other side, until once again I see
them, from the tail of my eye, merge into view ahead.
All is well--very well--and, suspicions wholly allayed at last, they
whirl for the second oncoming; just above the rushes, now; wings
spread wide and motionless; sailing nearer, nearer--
"_Now!_" whispers Sandford, "_now!_"
Out of our nest suddenly peeps my gun barrel; and, simultaneously, the
wings, a second before motionless, begin to beat the air in frantic
retreat.
But it is too late.
_Bang!_ What! not a feather drops?... _Bang!_ Quack! Quack! _Bang!_
_Bang!_... Splash!... Quack! Quack! Quack!
That is the story--all except for Sandford's derisive laugh.
"What'd I tell you?" he exults. "Wiped your eye for you that time,
didn't I?"
"How in the world I missed--" It is all that I can say. "They looked
as big as--as suspended tubs."
"Buck-fever," explains Sandford, laconically.
"That's all right." I feel my fighting-blood rising, and I swear with
a mighty wordless oath that I'll be avenged for that laugh. "The day
is young yet. If, before night, I don't wipe both your eyes, and wipe
them good--"
"I know you will, old man." Sandford is smiling understandingly, and
in a flash I return the smile with equal understanding. "And when you
do, laugh at me, laugh long and loud."