As soon as the whistle sounded, Blackie joined the torrent of boys that poured out into the kitchen to besiege Ellick for bags, boxes—anything in which a bird might be trapped. The chef looked about genially, finding something for most of them, smiling and assuring them that the prize offer was true, showing them the big green watermelon that would fall to the lucky Nimrod. Blackie was fortunate enough to find an empty potato-sack, and after providing himself with the powerful flash-lantern he had brought to camp, was ready to put himself in the hands of the experienced beaters, who would show him the correct place to post himself.
To his surprise, Sax McNulty, the councilor who had served the previous night as Grand Mogul and who had ordered Blackie’s ejection from the Throne Room, singled him out. The gloomy-faced comedian nodded somberly.
“Hello, Thorne! Going to redeem yourself and make the camp forget last night by being the first to get your snipe?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Blackie, “but I sure am going to try. Say, Sax!”
“What?”
“I—I’m sorry I was so fresh last night. I won’t forget what you said about being a good sport. And I didn’t mean to act the way I did.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t hurt my feelings any. Just to show you we’re good friends, I’m going to take you to the best place on the campus for snipe. I know where there’s a ‘run’ where as many snipe have been caught as in all the other places within six miles. I’ll be your beater. Got your outfit? Good. Trot along!”
He led the way at a rapid pace and Blackie followed, lugging his bag and lantern. They cut straight through the woods away from the lake; in places it was already so dark that the boy switched on his light to see the way. McNulty made so many turns and twists that it was not long before Blackie lost all sense of direction. At last, much to the boy’s satisfaction, the leader announced that they had reached the place. He helped Blackie rig up the sack with the mouth propped and held open by sticks, and arranged a pile of stones in front.
“In my experience,” said McNulty, “I think Mr. Carrigan is wrong about the mating-call. It really sounds more like kuk-kuk-kuk than coo-coo.” He made the boy practise the call over and over until he was satisfied.
“Now,” he said, “you just wait here until I beat a few down your way.”