CHAPTER IX

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!”