SHOOTING MALLARDS IN A SNOW STORM. 88 
your duck? Have you lost a duck? Ain’t there any 
other ducks here that you can get, without kicking 
because that one got away? What in thunder is the 
use of making a fuss about one poor lonesome old maid 
of a duck, any way?” 
“It wasn’t the duck, Harry,” said I, “ but it was your 
shooting at zt, instead of ahead, as I told you to do. 
Now, frankly ; didn’t youshoot right at it? 
“ Well,” said he, and he assumed the most confiden- 
tial manner, “I cannot tell a le. I did shoot at the 
duck, with my little gun.” 
The reader will probably imagine at this time that I 
embraced and forgave him, and told him I would rather 
he would miss a hundred ducks than tell a he. Nothing 
of the kind; I simply told him to stand still, and not 
be splashing water over me. 
“ Will!” said he, “I am not much of a wing shot, but 
the probabilities are that I will hit a crow before long.” 
How he expected to hit a crow was a mystery to me, 
as I Hadn’t seen one all day, and told himso. He mere- 
ly smiled. The flight had decreased, and we were only 
getting an occasional shot. My sight was directed 
toward the north, watching a lone duck as it flew 
around undecided where to light. <A slight sound at- 
tracted my attention, a gentle gurgling noise, like riv- 
ulets of water running over unbroken pebbles. It 
seemed to stop, then could be heard again with increas- 
ed volume. The sound was not an unfamiliar one to 
me. I turned my head, and there stood Harry, with face 
upturned to the falling snow, pointing the base of a bot- 
tle almost perpendicularly, the neck partially in his 
mouth, while a peculiar suction caused the amber fluid 
to spurt down his willing throat. His left eye closed, 
