THE QUAIL 



fore we knew it. Again and again we tried, but there was not 

 the slightest chance to make an exposure, for our hands would have 

 been the whole picture. At last we were worn out completely. 

 We had only three of our birds left. We carefully put them 

 down in the nest, Bob on one side, I on the other; he holding 

 the babies, I ready to squeeze the bulb or stop a young one if it 

 ran my way. 



"Now let me try," I said. 



Bob lifted his hands. Over the stone toward the wheat 

 raced the birds. I knew that all of them were on the stone 

 when I snapped. Development of the plate proved that Bob 

 had thrust out his hand to stop them, so I had taken it also, 

 although the motion was so quick that neither of us knew it. We 

 both were worn out and made no attempt to try again. I was 

 accustomed to being warm, tired, wet and muddy, but a vague 

 unusual discomfort was stealing over me as I slipped the slide 

 in the holder and packed the camera. What ailed me! I 

 actually was in distress. I glanced at Bob. His face and arms 

 were like red flannel. Was he suffering, too? He did not 

 seem happy. I had a right to sacrifice myself for my work if 

 I chose, but I had no right to punish Bob. I studied him 

 closer. 



A million tiny red lice were swarming up his neck and over 

 his face and arms. Only a quarter of a million fell to my share 

 but they drove me frantic. I climbed into the carriage and 

 almost killed Patience racing to the Cabin. Glancing back I saw 

 Bob come from the power-house with a bundle and run faster 

 than the pointer toward the river. I stopped in passing that 

 afternoon to see if he were alive, to find him smoking his pipe in a 

 hammock on the river-bank. He said in fifteen minutes after I 

 left, the old Quail were busy whistling and calling until they col- 

 lected their entire brood. 



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