A MORNING WITH THE DUCKS. 



267 



the snap of the camera shutter would make 

 him examine every button on his clothing. 



Our week was up. In a little while the 

 boat would be along to carry us toward 

 home, and we hadn't settled up yet. After 

 hunting about the house, we located the 

 landlord on the veranda. I said to him, 

 " Mr. Oldfield, we want to pay you for our 

 board, and for the use of the boats and for 

 your assistance. You have treated us as 

 we never expected, and while we are not 

 rich we want to pay you what it is worth." 



" Well, $6 apiece will square you up," 

 said he. 



" Yes, but we want to pay you for the 

 boat and for showing us about," I said. 



" Never," said he; " $6 is plenty, and if 

 you have had a good time so have I." 



And that was all he would take; but we 

 shall never forget him and the associations 

 of this vacation in what some would call 

 the wilds of Canada. 



What did the trip cost me, you ask? 

 About $35 in round figures, made up as 

 follows: 



Railway fare including sleeper, New 

 York to Suspension Bridge and re- 

 turn $20 



Suspension Bridge to Muskoka and re- 

 turn, via Grand Trunk Railroad 7 



One week's board, with use of boats. . . 6 



%33 



That sum would not go far about New 

 York. 



A MORNING WITH THE DUCKS. 



BUFFLEHEAD. 



" What the deuce is that? " was the 

 thought that flashed over me. " Oh, yes! 

 the alarm clock." With one jump I was 

 out of bed and, seizing the cause of, the 

 racket, I smothered, or rather tried to 

 smother its noise under the clothes. 



Then I went over to the other side of 

 the room and putting my hand on Dave's 

 shoulder began a tattoo on his chest. 



This having no effect, I turned on the 

 electric light and, holding the bulb in front 

 of his eyes — well, by heroic measures I 

 finally got him to open his eyes. Then I 

 said: 



" It's half past 3 and cold as blazes. Let's 

 give up the ducks." 



" I knew you would squeal," he answered, 

 getting out of bed. 



" I knew what would get you up," I re- 

 joined. 



We got into the togs we had spread out 

 the night before and got out of the house 

 without waking up everyone in it, a very 

 unusual performance, and started for the 

 shores of Narragansett bay, only 200 yards 

 from the house. 



I went into the club house and, getting 

 the decoys, we put them in a low skiff 

 with the guns and started for the marsh. 

 We had not, for once, neglected to bring a 

 lantern with us, and so while Dave rowed, 

 I put in order the strings on the decoys 

 and, if I ever realized that my fingers were 

 all thumbs it was that morning. 



After making our way through about 100 

 yards of ice we struck clear water, and un- 

 der Dave's powerful strokes we soon 

 reached our destination. 



Then putting out our decoys, perhaps 25 

 in all, some canvas, but mostly wooden 

 ones, we pulled the skiff up on the shore 

 and got in the blind. 



I had my 12 gauge hammerless and my 

 .40-82 Winchester, while Dave had a semi- 

 hammerless and a single barrel 8 gauge, a 

 fine gun of its class. 



Dawn came slowly, but the ducks were 

 astir, and at the first peep of day we saw a 

 few flitting forms go up the bay, indifferent 

 to our attempts at calling. 



I became interested in a gorgeous sun- 

 rise and was taking in a large " sun dog " 

 when a rasping voice said, " Quit that rub- 

 bering and get down; here comes one." 



As I dropped behind the blind, that pe- 

 culiar sliding splash told us the duck had 

 dropped in among our decoys. 



Before I could get my gun, Dave's 12 

 had sounded the whistler's death knell. As 

 Dave and I had had a little discussion on 

 the shooting qualities of the 8, compared 

 with those of the 12, he sticking up for the 

 larger, I said: " Why didn't you use your 

 wonderful blunderbuss? " " Oh," he said, 

 " a pop gun is good enough for a shot like 

 that. I think you might have gotten him." 



Then I saw 2 ducks coming in and had 

 the satisfaction of seeing mine wilt at the 

 crack of the Dupont, while Dave, having 

 missed the other with his 12, made a circus, 

 or chance shot, whichever you wish to call 

 it, with the cannon, killing the female at a 

 distance way out of ordinary range. 



After picking up 2 of these buffleheads, he 

 turned to me and said: " Now don't say 

 anything about your 12. It ain't in it." I 



