Trailing the “Bee Line Ducks” 
A Thrilling Duck Story by the Author of ‘‘Wild Bill’s Mate”’ 
“yAROLD and I had _ gunned 
iq Rickard’s Pond for five weeks 
with admirable persistency. Day 
after day we had sat helplessly and 
watched bunches of three to seven big 
“Winter Red-Legs” winnow by us high 
overhead, while no amount of coaxing 
would entice them in. So straight was 
their course, always in a direct line, 
that we called them the “bee-line” 
ducks. 
They would leave Plymouth Bay, 
somewhere in the neighborhood of 
Kingston, as soon as the tide covered 
the feeding grounds, take a north- 
westerly course over the woods and 
pastures, coming over us about five 
minutes later. We had _ anchored 
wooden “blocks” far out in the pond, 
used a goodly showing of live decoys 
around our “blind” and had flown 
“fliers” into the air ahead of them, but 
all to no avail; the ‘“bee-liners” still 
pursued their aerial trail with un- 
swerving fidelity. 
Then we plotted their course as near 
as we could on a Plymouth map that 
we happened to possess. We figured 
their line of flight up by the eastern end 
of Muddy Pond, too far east to touch 
Great Indian, for had they visited this 
“slaughter-hole” their lives would have 
paid the penalty. Great Indian Pond 
is one deadly contrivance for duck kill- 
ing from end to end. There are four 
large “stands” with their great show- 
ing of “blocks” and live decoys; even 
the sandy shores have been banked up 
with a white sand background in which 
large duck “blocks” have been im- 
bedded so that they are visable for 
miles. An Indian Pond gunner told me 
that when a duck gets in there he 
doesn’t know how to get out. One day 
a single duck completely circled the 
pond three times, while the gunners 
from each “stand” blazed away in turn 
until at last somebody shot it, or else 
it was frightened to death, he never 
was quite sure which way it was. A 
single “‘stand” has been known to ac- 
count for eight hundred ducks in a 
season; multiply that by four. 
AROLD and I knew where the 
“Dee-liners” came from but we did 
not know where they went. Late one 
afternoon as we sat bemoaning our 
fate, and trying to figure out how to 
find the “haunt” of these spirit ducks, 
our decoys let out smartly and we 
jumped to our feet. Two “bee-liners” 
584 
FRANK LINWOOD BAILEY 
were returning from their stronghold, 
one of them flying low. ‘Nail that low 
one,” I whispered; we were not taking 
any chances so we fired together. Down 
he came receiving the double charge. 
In an instant I had my knife-blade into 
his crop and stomach. “Going to eat 
him raw?” asked Harold. “No, but I’m 
going to see what this fellow eats,” I 
retorted. In the stomach I found a 
portion of undigested herb or tuber. It 
was of a kind I had never seen before, 
but I had an idea it grew in or near 
Snappet Swamp. “There’s your clew, 
Dr. Watson,” said I, holding it toward 
my companion. “Right you are, 
Holmes,” said he, “now let’s see you 
find the place where it grows.” 
A straight line from the direction in 
which the duck had come took us just 
outside of Snappet Swamp. For the 
next three days we gave little time to 
gunning, but devoted a great deal of it 
to detective work. 
E blazed trees all along the line, 
making our observations when 
the ducks both came and went until 
about dusk on a certain 
afternoon we waded 
into a little mud-hole. 
It was new to me, I 
had never dreamed of 
its existence. Imme- 
diately we began to 
claw around on the 
muddy bottom until we 
found what we were 
looking for—the identi- 
cal herb. ‘Tomorrow 
morning,” said I to 
Harold. ‘So be it,” he 
agreed, and we shook 
hands solemnly. 
I awoke with the 
sound of rain lashing 
against my windows 
while great gusts of wind shook the 
house thoroughly. I lay listening for 
a while, then my ’phone rang. Jump- 
ing out of bed and lifting the receiver 
a sleepy voice came over the wire: 
“What do you think about it?” “Just 
the same as I thought last night,” I 
returned. “Pretty rough morning, 
ain’t it?’ continued the voice. “So 
much the better,” I answered. ‘You 
can’t expect those ducks to hand them- 
selves to us on a silver platter, can 
you?” Came a partly-stifled yawn: 
“Well, I'll be there with the team in 
half an hour.” I hung up quickly for 

fear he would back out, jumped into 
my clothes and made my way to the 
kitchen. 
OXY, my English Setter, came 
slowly across the floor to greet me; 
she knew something was up and che 
wagged her tail understandingly. “You 
can’t go, lady,” I told her, stroking her 
silken ears. She seemed to understand, 
for her tail dropped despondently; she 
had been sick for a week and was just 
getting to be more like herself again. 
I did not want her to go into the 
water—which she surely would do if 
there were ducks to be brought out— 
neither did I wish to take her into the 
rain. 
Finally, with breakfast over and 
Harold waiting, she begged so hard we 
had not the heart to refuse her, so we 
stowed her away under the seat and 
began our five-mile journey. 
How hard it rained as we jogged 
along the old Plympton road through 
sloughs and mud puddles! The horse 
alone was able to stick to the right 
course. 
By the time we reached “the 
parting of the ways” 
where the road leads 
down to Muddy Pond, 
we were soaked from 
end to end, and there 
were yet two miles to 
go. The tall pines 
fairly “buckled”  be- 
neath the heavy north- 
easter; the wind must 
have been sweeping 
across Monk’s Hill at 
sixty miles an hour. 
Twice we were forced 
to get out and remove 
fallen trees from the 
road; it was too wet 
for conversation so we 
sat and soaked. 
At last we reached the pine entrance 
to Snappet Swamp. 
ERE we left the team with Roxy 
fastened securely beneath the seat, 
and made our way along the dark rain- 
soaked wood road around the swamp to 
where it just touches the western end; 
the mud-hole was but a short distance 
away. 
Despite our best efforts we put out a 
big bunch of ducks and could hear them 
go tearing off into the darkness. “All 
the better,” grunted Harold between 
(Continued on page 630) 
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