THE QUAIL 



Bob produced the Quail. I held them until he found all of them 

 and then we placed them in the nest. Over the stone and into the 

 wheat they darted like weasels. Two were lost completely before 

 we knew it. Again and again we tried, and there wasn't the ghost 

 of a chance to make an exposure, for our hands would have been 

 the whole picture. At last we were worn out completely. We had 

 just 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 one if it ran my way. 



"Now let me try," I said. 



Bob lifted his hands. Over the stone for the wheat raced the 

 birds. All I knew was 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 and 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 dis- 

 comfort was stealing over me as I slipped the slide in the holder 

 and packed the camera. What ailed me? I actually was in dis- 

 tress. I glanced at Bob. His face and arms were like red flannel. 

 Was he suffering, too? He didn't look 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 

 and drove me frantic. I climbed into the carriage and almost 

 killed Patience racing for the cabin. Glancing back I saw Bob 

 come from the power-house with a bundle and run to beat the 

 pointer for the river. I stopped in passing that afternoon to see 

 if he were alive and found him smoking his pipe in a hammock 



255 



