Ned’s neck was stiff from perpetually searching the heavens to discover scurrying flocks. He talked ducks from morn to eve, and dreamed ducks from eve to morn, and the family assured him that he certainly would turn into one, if he didn’t let up.
And so far, despite his hunting excursions, and his tales of “big mallards” that he “almost” got, the family table was still innocent of game.
The tenth of November, and behold Ned, and Tom, his squire, across the river, trudging among the winding sloughs that formed a popular Beaufort hunting-ground. They had started from home at four in the morning—as was their custom; and had been tramping ever since—as, again, was their custom; and had not shot a single duck—which, alas, also was their custom. Ducks were much more crafty than tin cans.
Yet the boys thought that tramping all a long day, laden with gun and shells and boots, through swamp and over fields; with a few mouthfuls of cold breakfast, and a cold lunch hastily gobbled; and at the
last not a feather to reward them, was much less work than piling wood, for instance, or going down town for a yeast-cake!
Perseverance has its reward. On this tenth of November Ned and Tom had stopped in a fence corner to eat their lunch, which consisted mainly of bread and butter and sugar, hard boiled eggs, and cookies. They had stiffly arisen, and had walked forward not twenty paces, when up from under the high bank of a narrow inlet just in front of them, jumped straight into the air, with a quack and a sputter, a panic-stricken something, and was off like a bullet.
“Ned!” blurted Tom.
“Bang!” spoke the gun.
Down to turf upon the other side of the inlet plumped the something, magically stopped in mid-flight.