DICK AND JIM GO ON A SHOOTING TRIP.
Two months of the fall term had come and gone; Thanksgiving Day was
close at hand. Dick stood in front of his locker, dressing leisurely
after his practice on the track, and chatting with Jim Putnam, the
captain of the crew. Athletics were uppermost in their talk. They
discussed everything in turn--the arguments, pro and con, for winning
the cup; the chances of the crew, the nine, the track team; the rival
merits of Dave Ellis and Johnson for the Pentathlon; then all at once
Putnam abruptly changed the subject. "Oh, say, Dick," he remarked; "I
was going to ask you something and I came pretty near forgetting it.
What about Thanksgiving? You're not going home, are you?"
Dick shook his head. "No, it's too far," he answered. "I'm going to
wait till Christmas. I suppose, though, most of the fellows do go
home."
Putnam nodded. "Yes," he answered, "it's so near for most of them,
they can do it all right without any trouble. I guess you and I live
about as far away as any two fellows in the school. But I was
thinking--as long as we're going to be here--I've got what I call a
bully good scheme. Did I ever tell you about the lake, away up north
of the village, where they get the ducks?"
Dick shook his head, his interest at once awakened. "No," he answered;
"I didn't know that there were any ducks around here, Jim."
"Well, there are," returned Putnam; "but most people don't know it. I
didn't get on to it until last spring. I was taking a tramp up through
that way in the spring recess, and I stopped at a farm-house for the
night. The folks were as nice as they could be. There's a young fellow
that runs the farm, and his wife and three or four kids. Well, after
supper we got talking about the country around there and the lake, and
then he started telling me about the ducks. He says there are a lot of
them every fall that keep trading to and fro between the lake and salt
water, and that stay around, right up to the time things freeze. They
leave the lake at daylight and don't come back till afternoon. And
that's the time to shoot them. You set decoys off one of the points,
and make a blind, and he's got a dandy retriever that brings in the
ducks. He only shoots a few. He says he's busy about the farm, and he
lives so far away there's not much use gunning them for market. So he
just kills what he can use himself. But he told me any time I wanted
to come up, he'd give me a good shoot and I've been meaning to do it
all the fall; only the crew has taken so much of my time, I haven't
got around to it. It takes a day to do it right, anyway.
"So I figured like this. First of all, we'll ask Mr. Fenton if we can
go; but that will be only a matter of form. As long as he knows we're
used to shooting, and are careful with our guns, he'll let us go all
right; that's just the kind of a trip he likes fellows to take. Then
we'll get word up to Cluff--that's the farmer, you know--that we're
coming; and then we'll hire a team down in the village and we'll start
Thanksgiving morning. It'll take us two or three hours to get up
there, and then we'll have dinner, and have plenty of time to get
everything ready for the afternoon. Cluff's got decoys, and I suppose,
as long as it's Thanksgiving, he'll go along with us, and see that we
get set in a good place. Then we'll have the afternoon shooting, and
we can get supper there, and drive home in the evening. It's full
moon, so if it stays clear it'll be as light as day. How does that
strike you, Dick? Are you game?"
"Am I game?" repeated Randall. "Well, I should rather say I was. I
haven't fired a gun for a year. They laughed at me at home for packing
away my old shooting-iron in the bottom of my trunk; but I'll have the
laugh on them now. I do certainly like to shoot ducks. What kinds do
they have here, Jim?"
"Why, Cluff says there are lots of black ducks," Putnam answered; "and
pintails, and teal. And some years, if there comes a good breeze
outside, they have a flight of blackheads and redheads. Oh, if what he
said was so, I guess we'll get some ducks all right. Let's make a
start, anyway. I vote we go and see Mr. Fenton now."
They found the master in his study, and were forthwith questioned and
cross-questioned, with good-natured thoroughness, until Mr. Fenton had
satisfied himself that it would be safe to let them take the trip.
Then, as Putnam had predicted, permission was readily enough
forthcoming, though Mr. Fenton was frankly skeptical as to the amount
of game they were going to bring home. "I doubt the ducks, boys," he
told them smilingly; "but you'll have a fine time, just the same, no
matter how many you kill. And don't forget that I'm trusting you. Take
care of yourselves in every way. Don't shoot each other, and don't
fall into the lake; and be sure and bring yourselves back, anyway; it
won't matter so much about the ducks."
With many promises of good behavior they left him and hastened down to
the village to hire their team and to send word to Cluff that they
would arrive in time for dinner, on Thanksgiving Day. All that evening
they talked of nothing but their plans; and that night, as Dick fell
asleep, he was busy picturing to himself the appearance of the lake,
seeing himself, in imagination, concealed upon a wooded point, with
the retriever crouching at his side, and a big flock of redheads
bearing swiftly down upon the decoys. So real did the scene become
that half-asleep as he was, he came suddenly to himself to find that
he was sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to bring an imaginary gun
to his shoulder. Then, with a laugh, and with a half-sigh as well, to
find that the ducks had vanished before his very eyes, he lay down
again, and this time went to sleep in good earnest.
Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and bright, warm for the time of year,
with a fresh breeze blowing from the south, and a faint haze hanging
over the tops of the distant hills. By nine o'clock the boys were
ready at the door of the dormitory, guns under their arms, shell-bags
in hand. Shortly they perceived their buggy approaching, and Putnam
gave a shout of laughter at sight of their steed, a little,
shaggy-coated, wiry-looking black mare, scarcely larger than a
good-sized pony. As the outfit drew up before the door, Putnam walked
forward and made a critical examination; then turned to the driver, a
rawboned, sandy-haired countryman, with a pleasant, good-natured face,
and a shrewd and humorous eye. "Will we get there?" he demanded.
The man grinned. "You worryin' about Rosy?" he asked. "No call to do
that. She's an ol' reliable, she is. Ben in the stable twenty-five
years, an' never went back on no one yet. Oh, she'll _git_ ye there,
all right, ain't no doubt o' that at all; that is--" he added, "'thout
she sh'd happen to drop dead, or somethin' like that. No hoss is goin'
t' live for ever; specially in a livery stable. But I'll bet ye even
she lasts out the trip."
Dick laughed, though there was something pathetic, as well, in the
resigned expression with which the mare regarded them, as one who
would say, "This may be all right for you young folks, but it's a
pretty old story for me." "Well, I guess she won't run away," he
hazarded hopefully.
The man shook his head with emphasis. "No, _sir_," he answered, "I
can't imagine nothin' short of a tornado and a earthquake combined,
would make Rosy run. But then again--" he added loyally, "she ain't
near so bad as she looks. O' course, she couldn't show ye a mile in
two minutes, but that ain't what you're lookin' for. Six mile an
hour--that's her schedule--an' she'll stick to it all right, up-hill
and down, good roads an' bad, till the cows come home. An' that's the
kind o' hoss you want."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, sir," he returned, as they stowed away the guns
in the bottom of the buggy, "horse or man--we're for the stayers,
every time. And if Rosy's been sticking it out for twenty-five years,
we'll see she gets treated right now. I guess she deserves it. All
aboard, Dick?"
"Sure," Randall answered; then, turning to the man, "You'd better get
in behind. We'll be going pretty near the stable, so we might as well
give you a lift," and somewhat heavily laden they started, with light
hearts, on their journey toward the lake.
They found their passenger decidedly communicative. "It's lucky for
you boys," he presently remarked, "that you ain't no older'n ye be. 'F
you were men, now, you might fairly be expectin' trouble, 'fore ye git
through town."
Both boys looked at him with some curiosity. "Why, what do you mean by
that?" asked Putnam. "What's wrong in the village?"
"Big row," the man answered, "over in the paper mills. They ben havin'
trouble all the fall, fightin' over wages, an' hours, an' most
everythin' else. They'd kind o' manage to agree, an' then, fust thing
you know, they'd be scrappin' again, wuss'n ever. They got a passel o'
furriners in there now," he added with contempt; "guess they think
they're savin' money employin' cheap labor. Mighty _dear_ labor, I
expect 't'll be, 'fore they git through with 'em. These dagoes an'
sich, a-carryin' knives--I do' know, I ain't got much use for 'em. My
opinion, ol' Uncle Sam would do better to have 'em stay home where
they b'long."
He paused and spit thoughtfully over the side of the buggy, evidently
contemplating with disgust the presence of "dagoes an' sich," on New
England soil.
"Well," queried Dick, "what's happened? Have they struck?"
The livery man nodded with emphasis. "Surest thing you know," he
answered. "They went out yesterday, the whole gang, an' they ben
loafin' round the town ever since. Things look kind o' ugly to me.
'Cause the owners, they got their sportin' blood up, too, an' they
sent right out o' town for a big gang o' strike-busters, 'n they got
in this mornin'. So there we be; an' as I say, it's lucky you boys
ain't no older, or you might see trouble 'fore night. Well, guess this
is about as near th' stable as we'll come. Much obliged to ye for the
lift. Enjoy yourselves now, an' don't let Rosy git to kickin' up too
lively, so she'll run with ye, an' dump ye out in a ditch. You keep
her steadied down, whatever ye do."
With a good-natured grin, he jumped from the buggy and disappeared in
the direction of the stable. The boys, driving onward through the
village, looked around them with interest. The state of affairs
appeared, as their friend had said, "kind o' ugly." Little knots of
dark-skinned foreigners stood here and there about the streets,
sometimes silent and sullen, again listening to the eloquence of some
excited leader, haranguing them in his native tongue, accompanying the
torrent of words with wildly gesticulating arms. As they turned into
the road leading to the north, a dark-browed, scowling striker at the
corner glared angrily at them as they passed, muttering words which
sounded the very reverse of a blessing. Putnam whistled as they drove
on. "Golly, Dick," he observed, "what did you think of that fellow? If
looks could kill, as they say, I guess we'd be done for now. I hope
they don't have a row out of it. Imagine running up against a chap
like that, with a good sharp knife in his fist. I guess it takes some
nerve to be a strike-buster all right."
Dick nodded assent, but twenty minutes later, strikes and
strike-breakers were alike forgotten, as they left the village behind
them, and struck into the level wood road leading northward to the
lake. The change from civilization to solitude was complete. To right
and left of them, squirrels chattered and scolded among the trees;
chickadees bobbed their little black caps to them as they passed.
Farther back in the woods a blue-jay screamed; overhead, high up in
the blue, a great hawk sailed, circling, with no slightest motion of
his outspread wings. The road stretched straight before them,
narrowing, in the distance, to a mere thread between the wall of trees
on either hand. The wind blew fair from the south; old Rosy settled
down to the six miles an hour for which she was famed. Both boys
leaned back in the seat, extended their legs ungracefully, but in
perfect comfort, over the dashboard of the buggy, and then heaved a
long sigh of well-being and content.
Dick was the first to speak. "Jim," he observed, "this is great. This
is what I call living. It's just as Mr. Fenton said; this is good
enough as it is if we don't get any ducks."
Putnam nodded assent. "You bet it is," he answered, "but we'll get the
ducks, too. We'll surprise Mr. Fenton, if we can." He was silent for a
moment, then added, "Say, Dick, you've been here two months now. What
do you think of the master anyway; and what do you think of the
school?"
Dick did not hesitate. "I think they're both bully," he answered
promptly. "At first I used to laugh at Harry Allen for the way he went
on about Mr. Fenton. I thought it sounded pretty foolish; but
everything he said is so. I can't imagine how any one could be much
nicer. It's just as Allen told me once--he doesn't preach, you know; I
hate the pious kind of talk like anything; but he's just--well, I
don't know--just so darned _square_ to a fellow, somehow. And then, if
you try to do anything yourself--just in little ways, I mean--you've
kind of got the feeling that he's on to it, right away. He never gives
you any soft soap, either, but if you're trying to plug along about
right, you've got a sort of idea that he knows it; and if you're up to
something you oughtn't to be up to, you've got just the same feeling
that he's on to that, too. It's hard to explain; it's just like--just
as if--oh, well, confound it, Jim, I can't put it into words, but you
know what I mean."
Putnam nodded. "Sure I do," he answered; "and it _is_ hard to put into
words just the way you say. That was the reason I asked. I wanted to
see how it hit you, coming into the school new the way you have. But
it's so, isn't it? He never _talks_ about being good, or about doing
your duty, or any of that sort of thing--he only makes a speech once a
year, at commencement, and that's a short one. But I'll tell you what
I guess the secret is. I could never have expressed it--I'm not smart
enough--but my father was up here last year, at graduation, and I
asked him afterward, when we got home, what he thought it was about
Mr. Fenton that made every one like him so. He said that was an easy
one; that every man, who really made a success of his life, had two
things back of him. First, he was in love with his work, and second,
he had high ideals _about_ his work. And he said you couldn't talk
with Mr. Fenton for five minutes, without seeing what an interest he
took in his school, and in his boys, and that more than making
scholars out of them, or athletes out of them, he wanted to make them
into men. And I guess that's about what we were trying to put in
words, and couldn't."
Dick thought hard; then nodded. "Well, I guess so, too," he answered,
and then, after a pause, "But now look here, Jim, if that's so, what
do you think about this business of class president? Because that's an
awfully important thing for the school. It shows people at graduation
the kind of fellow we want to put forward to represent the class; and
the honor sticks to him in college, and really, you might say, in a
kind of way all through his life. And you can't tell me that you think
Dave Ellis is the fellow Mr. Fenton would honestly like to see elected
president, now can you?"
Putnam shook his head. "No, I can't," he answered; "but that isn't up
to Mr. Fenton, Dick; he never would interfere in anything like that.
And I'll tell you why. I met a fellow last summer who was quite
prominent here in the school four or five years ago. We got to talking
about different things and finally I told him about Dave and the
presidency. He said that the year he graduated there was a lot of
feeling in his class over the election and that finally some of the
fellows went to Mr. Fenton and asked him if he wouldn't use his
influence to try and get the right man in. He told them that was
something he couldn't do; that if school life did anything at all it
fitted fellows to meet some of the obstacles they'd have to run up
against later in their lives and that this was just one of the things
they would have to do their best to work out by themselves without
coming to him. And, of course, you can see, when you come to think of
it, that he was right. It's just like a republic and a monarchy; we
wouldn't want even as good a man as Mr. Fenton to rule us like a king.
It's his part to get as much sense into us as he can, and if he can't
make us smart enough to tell a good fellow from a bad one, why, that
isn't his fault. We've got to take the responsibility for that
ourselves."
"Yes, I see," Dick assented; "but it's too bad, just the same, if we
elect Dave. Because he isn't in it with Allen as a fellow. Harry's
_white_ clear through. But it's funny about Dave. He's certainly got
an awful following; and I suppose he's dead sure to win."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, I think he is," he answered; "and really
you can't wonder at it, either. Athletics count for such a lot
nowadays--too much, I think--and somehow if a fellow is a star
athlete, that seems to blind every one to his faults. And then you
know what they say--that nothing succeeds like success. And Dave's
really done a lot for the school in an athletic way. And they all
think he'll be the big winner this spring; they think he'll land the
Pentathlon, and help win the track meet, and of course that all helps.
And then he's got that kind of a don't-give-a-darn manner. It jars a
lot of the fellows, of course, just as it does you and me, but then,
on the other hand, with a lot of the younger boys, it goes in great
style. I think they imagine it's just about the sort of air that a
really great man ought to have. It's funny to see some of them trying
to imitate it. No, Dave's got the inside track.
"Allen's the better fellow, of course--Harry's about as nice as they
come--but I don't see how he can win. And it's queer, too, you know;
but his being such a corker in a literary way hurts him just as much
as it helps him. He doesn't mean any harm by the way he's quoting his
old poets all the time, but it doesn't go with the crowd. You know how
it is. If you don't know a thing, and the other fellow does know it,
and you have kind of a guilty feeling all the time that you ought to
know it and don't, why then you sort of square up with yourself by
getting to dislike the other fellow for knowing more than you do.
That's sad, but it's true. And yet, of course, as I say, right down at
the bottom, there's no comparison between the two fellows. Allen's as
fair and square as a die, and the most kind-hearted chap that ever
stepped, nice to everybody, big boys and small. And Dave--well, I
don't know. I wouldn't slander a fellow for anything, but I don't
think I'd trust old Dave very far. Did I ever tell you about Ned
Brewster and the daily themes?"
Dick shook his head. "No, I don't think you ever did," he answered.
"What about it?"
"Why," said Putnam; "it happened like this. There's an English course
in college, you know, where they have to write a theme every day. We
have the same thing here, for a month, second half year--English
Fourteen. Well, Ned Brewster was talking to a crowd of fellows one day
about a letter his brother had written him from college, telling quite
a lot about this daily theme business--all about the good ones, and
the funny ones, and a lot of things like that. Ned never thought
anything more about it, but a little while after that Dave came to
him, and asked him if he didn't think it would be an awfully good
scheme to get Ned's brother to have copies of all his themes made and
sent down to Ned, so they'd be all solid for that month of English
Fourteen. Bright idea, wasn't it?"
Dick whistled. "Well," he ejaculated; "the mean skunk! What nerve!
What did Ned say?"
Putnam grinned. "Not very much," he answered. "He told me he thought
at first Dave was joking, but when he got it through his head that he
was really in earnest I guess his language was quite picturesque. Dave
hates him like poison now, and it makes it hard for Ned, being captain
of the track team, you know, and Dave being the star athlete. It gives
Dave all sorts of mean little chances to try to make the fellows think
Ned isn't being square about the work, and all that sort of thing. You
know what I mean. He keeps grumbling all the time, and saying that Ned
shows favoritism to fellows he likes, and a lot of rot like that. And
it hurts, too, because there are always some fellows foolish enough to
believe it, and the first thing you know, you've got a split in the
class. However, we're none of us perfect, so I suppose we can't be too
hard on Dave. Maybe we can elect Allen, anyway. Something may happen
in the next six weeks. I know one thing, anyway; Dave's got to hustle
like a good one if he means to keep up in his work. I understand that
he's right on the danger line now, and the mid tears are always pretty
stiff, harder than the finals, I always thought. If he shouldn't pass,
he wouldn't be eligible for the presidency--and as far as that goes,
he wouldn't be eligible for athletics either. Wouldn't that raise the
deuce? I suppose the track team would crumple like a piece of paper
without Dave in the weights and the Pentathlon. Golly, though, that
reminds me, Dick. Ned Brewster says you're the coming man on the
track. Is that straight? Did you really do five six in the gym?"
Dick nodded. "Well, yes," he answered; "I believe I did. Only once,
though. You know how it is. A fellow will get in a lucky jump, once in
a while."
Putnam laughed. "Don't be so ashamed of it," he said good-naturedly.
"That's a corking good jump for any one. Some fellows go plugging
along half their lives, and don't get that high. Who can beat it,
besides Johnson?"
Dick pondered. "Well, I can't think of any one," he said at last;
"still, there may be a lot of fellows I don't know about--"
Putnam cut him short. "Oh, nonsense," he cried; "don't we get all the
gossip from the school papers, and from the fellows we see? Didn't we
know, the very same day, when Johnson broke the Clinton record, that
time he did five eight and a half? No, sir, you're good for second
place in the high, in the big meet, and that means your 'F.' What more
do you want than that? Your first year at the game."
Dick was silent. Finally he said hesitatingly, "Well, Jim, I know I'm
a fool, but I'd like awfully well to have some show for the
Pentathlon."
Putnam looked at him in amazement. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" he
ejaculated. "You don't want a great deal, do you? With Dave and
Johnson both in the game? Why, where would you fit with them, Dick?"
Randall reddened a trifle. "Oh, well, probably I wouldn't," he
returned; "but you see, they've both got their weak points. Dave's
mighty good in the weights--I couldn't touch him there--but then in
the jump he's really poor, and in the hundred and hurdles he's no more
than fair. And Johnson's a great jumper, and a good man at the hundred
and hurdles, but he isn't up in the weights, by a long shot. I don't
mean," he added quickly, "that I think I can beat either of them now;
maybe I never can beat them; but they could be beaten, just the same,
easier than people think. It isn't as if either of them was so good
that you'd know right away it was no use tackling them; and I don't
know about Johnson, but I don't think Dave's going to improve a great
deal on what he did when school began. He's really pretty stupid about
athletics, just the way he is about books. He can't learn the knack of
that high jump, to save himself. No, they could be beaten, all right,
if a fellow could only get good enough."
Putnam considered. "Well, maybe that's so," he doubtfully admitted at
last. "What can you do with the shot, Dick? And the hammer?"
"I'm putting the shot around thirty-five," Randall answered; "but the
hammer is my weak spot. I can throw it pretty well from a stand, but I
can't seem to learn the turn. I can beat Ellis sprinting, though, and
I'm pretty sure I can beat him hurdling. But, of course, the hammer
and shot would make all the difference. Still, it doesn't matter,
anyway--the whole thing--as long as Dave can win for the school, only
I figured that since it was so close between him and Johnson, it would
be better for us to have two men training, in place of one. But I
guess it's only a dream, anyway; I've got to learn to throw a hammer
before I can make any sort of show."
Putnam nodded. "Yes, that's so," he answered. "The Pentathlon's an
event where you've got to be pretty good at everything; you can't have
any one weak spot, where you won't score at all, or you might as well
stay out. Still, if you could get the knack with the hammer, I don't
see but what you really might have a chance, after all. I didn't
realize you could put a shot thirty-five feet. But for goodness' sake,
Dick," he concluded, "promise me one thing. If you get to be the best
that ever happened, _don't_ go and get a swelled head; I've seen that
so many times, where a new fellow makes good. It's natural, I suppose,
but awfully painful for his friends."
Dick colored. "Of course I wouldn't," he replied with some
indignation. "I don't believe there's much danger of my getting
anywhere, in the first place; but even if I ever did, I wouldn't be
such a fool as that. There's no sense in it. Mr. Fenton gave me a
dandy book the other day--the best book I ever read--_Rodney Stone_.
There's a lot about prize-fighting in it, and it tells about Lord
Nelson, and Beau Brummel, and all about those times. But the
prize-fighting was the best. There's one chapter, _The Smith's Last
Fight_, why, I could feel the shivers running up and down my back,
just as if I'd been there myself. Oh, it was bully! And it comes in,
in the book, how every one of the champions, first and last, had to
meet his match. 'Youth will be served, my masters,' that's what one
old fellow keeps saying, and you can learn something from a book like
that, now I tell you. You can learn that no matter how good you are,
there's always some one that will beat you and the greatest athlete in
the world has to go down with the rest. But it's all right to try to
win, just the same. You want to turn out a winning crew just as much
as I want to see the track team win, but I don't tell you not to get
swelled headed. Come, now, isn't that right?"
Putnam hastened to assent. "Oh, sure," he answered; "I was only
warning you; I didn't really believe there was any danger. 'And
speaking of the crew, Dick, I think, by gracious, we've got more show
than people imagine. Most of the fellows have an idea that Clinton's
going to win, because they made a fast time row this fall, but I'm not
worrying much over that. They only beat us half a length last year,
and we're seconds better now than we were then. This new fellow,
Smith, is a dandy at three, and Jimmy Blagden is twice the man he was
last spring. He was really the weak spot in the crew, but now he's as
good a bow as I'd want to see. So don't think your old track team is
the only pebble; you're going to hear from us, too. We want that cup."
For two hours the talk flowed steadily along. Athletics, lessons, the
presidency, the ducks, all taking their turn. And then at last, a
little before noon, they passed the northern limit of the woods; the
lake lay bright and blue before them, and a half mile or so ahead, in
the middle of a sunny clearing, they beheld Cluff's farm.