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“Well,” returned Quinker, philosophically, 
“we’re here because we’re here, and we might 
as well make the best of it.” 
I agreed, rather dejectedly, and added that 
we’d have a pretty dull time of it, as with ice 
there’d be no shooting. 
“Hump,” said Cap’n Lige dryly, “what some 
folks dunno about gunnin’ ’d reach from here 
most clear across to the mainland.” 
“How d’ y’ mean?” asked Quinker. 
“Why, son,” said Cap'ii Lige, “this here 
kind o’ weather’s the only kind what’s fit to go 
gunnin’ in. You better run down to your shack 
for your guns an’ shells. Then you better come 
back an’ turn in ail’ I’ll show you, come morn- 
in’. Your bunks is up them stairs in the attic. 
The last fellers to sleep in ’em was the dead 
mate an’ cook off’n that schooner what went 
ashore here last spring. They’re good bunks, 
though.” 
We would fain have asked more questions 
of our two bed predecessors, but the old man 
waved them aside with the remark that there 
“wasn’t nothin’ interestin’ about them fellers 
’ceptin’ they was dead.” Quinker went for our 
outfits, and returning we went “aloft.” 
Quinker said he would rather have the bunk 
which the mate had occupied. 
"But how do you know which one it was?” 
I retorted. 
“Oh, I don't, but I sort of feel it was this 
one,” he answered. 
“All right,” I rejoined; “I’m not afraid of 
the cook. Goodnight.” And I snuffed the lamp. 
It was powerfully cold when Cap’n Lige 
routed us out. We scrambled into our clothes 
and hurried below stairs. Porgy and Bergall 
were before us, and breakfast was waiting, 
though it was yet within an hour of daylight. 
“Got on plenty clothes?” inquired Cap’n 
Lige as we finished. “It’ll be mighty chilly out 
there in the scooters.” 
Pla, thought Quinker and I simultaneously. 
The old fellow was taking us scooter gunning 
of course. Why hadn’t we thought of that be¬ 
fore? Probably because “scooters”—those am¬ 
phibious little aids to the bayman, combination 
duck boats, ice boats, shooting blinds and express 
trains in a three reef gale—were new to us. We 
knew them only by reputation. Before that day 
was over, we had struck up a close personal 
friendship. 
Cap'n Lige led the way with a lantern. We 
felt the stillness of the cold in our nostrils as 
we pushed after him through the scrub and sand 
toward the shore. From the lea of a shed we 
helped him haul two white, whaleback looking 
little craft, the scooters, and with the old man 
we ran them out on to the firm ice alongshore 
against which the starlight threw back its own 
reflection. 
Cap'n Lige took Quinker in the larger of 
the scooters, and I took the other. There was 
a long pole with a spike and a boat hook-appear¬ 
ing thing on its end. 
“We’ll have to push out, b’guy,” said Cap’n 
Lige. “There ain’t no wind. Jest take that ice 
pole an’ shove.” 
I did, and in a moment, with practically no 
effort, I had the scooter booming along over the 
black, smooth ice nearly as fast as a man will 
skate comfortably. 
Just ahead through the darkness I could 
see the uncertain white loom of Cap’n Lige’s 
