"Well, there are," returned Putnam; "but most people don't know it. I didn't get on to it until last spring. I was taking a tramp up through that way in the spring recess, and I stopped at a farm-house for the night. The folks were as nice as they could be. There's a young fellow that runs the farm, and his wife and three or four kids. Well, after supper we got talking about the country around there and the lake, and then he started telling me about the ducks. He says there are a lot of them every fall that keep trading to and fro between the lake and salt water, and that stay around, right up to the time things freeze. They leave the lake at daylight and don't come back till afternoon. And that's the time to shoot them. You set decoys off one of the points, and make a blind, and he's got a dandy retriever that brings in the ducks. He only shoots a few. He says he's busy about the farm, and he lives so far away there's not much use gunning them for market. So he just kills what he can use himself. But he told me any time I wanted to come up, he'd give me a good shoot and I've been meaning to do it all the fall; only the crew has taken so much of my time, I haven't got around to it. It takes a day to do it right, anyway.
"So I figured like this. First of all, we'll ask Mr. Fenton if we can go; but that will be only a matter of form. As long as he knows we're used to shooting, and are careful with our guns, he'll let us go all right; that's just the kind of a trip he likes fellows to take. Then we'll get word up to Cluff--that's the farmer, you know--that we're coming; and then we'll hire a team down in the village and we'll start Thanksgiving morning. It'll take us two or three hours to get up there, and then we'll have dinner, and have plenty of time to get everything ready for the afternoon. Cluff's got decoys, and I suppose, as long as it's Thanksgiving, he'll go along with us, and see that we get set in a good place. Then we'll have the afternoon shooting, and we can get supper there, and drive home in the evening. It's full moon, so if it stays clear it'll be as light as day. How does that strike you, Dick? Are you game?"
"Am I game?" repeated Randall. "Well, I should rather say I was. I haven't fired a gun for a year. They laughed at me at home for packing away my old shooting-iron in the bottom of my trunk; but I'll have the laugh on them now. I do certainly like to shoot ducks. What kinds do they have here, Jim?"
"Why, Cluff says there are lots of black ducks," Putnam answered; "and pintails, and teal. And some years, if there comes a good breeze outside, they have a flight of blackheads and redheads. Oh, if what he said was so, I guess we'll get some ducks all right. Let's make a start, anyway. I vote we go and see Mr. Fenton now."
They found the master in his study, and were forthwith questioned and cross-questioned, with good-natured thoroughness, until Mr. Fenton had satisfied himself that it would be safe to let them take the trip. Then, as Putnam had predicted, permission was readily enough forthcoming, though Mr. Fenton was frankly skeptical as to the amount of game they were going to bring home. "I doubt the ducks, boys," he told them smilingly; "but you'll have a fine time, just the same, no matter how many you kill. And don't forget that I'm trusting you. Take care of yourselves in every way. Don't shoot each other, and don't fall into the lake; and be sure and bring yourselves back, anyway; it won't matter so much about the ducks."
With many promises of good behavior they left him and hastened down to the village to hire their team and to send word to Cluff that they would arrive in time for dinner, on Thanksgiving Day. All that evening they talked of nothing but their plans; and that night, as Dick fell asleep, he was busy picturing to himself the appearance of the lake, seeing himself, in imagination, concealed upon a wooded point, with the retriever crouching at his side, and a big flock of redheads bearing swiftly down upon the decoys. So real did the scene become that half-asleep as he was, he came suddenly to himself to find that he was sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to bring an imaginary gun to his shoulder. Then, with a laugh, and with a half-sigh as well, to find that the ducks had vanished before his very eyes, he lay down again, and this time went to sleep in good earnest.
Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and bright, warm for the time of year, with a fresh breeze blowing from the south, and a faint haze hanging over the tops of the distant hills. By nine o'clock the boys were ready at the door of the dormitory, guns under their arms, shell-bags in hand. Shortly they perceived their buggy approaching, and Putnam gave a shout of laughter at sight of their steed, a little, shaggy-coated, wiry-looking black mare, scarcely larger than a good-sized pony. As the outfit drew up before the door, Putnam walked forward and made a critical examination; then turned to the driver, a rawboned, sandy-haired countryman, with a pleasant, good-natured face, and a shrewd and humorous eye. "Will we get there?" he demanded.
The man grinned. "You worryin' about Rosy?" he asked. "No call to do that. She's an ol' reliable, she is. Ben in the stable twenty-five years, an' never went back on no one yet. Oh, she'll git ye there, all right, ain't no doubt o' that at all; that is--" he added, "'thout she sh'd happen to drop dead, or somethin' like that. No hoss is goin' t' live for ever; specially in a livery stable. But I'll bet ye even she lasts out the trip."
Dick laughed, though there was something pathetic, as well, in the resigned expression with which the mare regarded them, as one who would say, "This may be all right for you young folks, but it's a pretty old story for me." "Well, I guess she won't run away," he hazarded hopefully.
The man shook his head with emphasis. "No, sir," he answered, "I can't imagine nothin' short of a tornado and a earthquake combined, would make Rosy run. But then again--" he added loyally, "she ain't near so bad as she looks. O' course, she couldn't show ye a mile in two minutes, but that ain't what you're lookin' for. Six mile an hour--that's her schedule--an' she'll stick to it all right, up-hill and down, good roads an' bad, till the cows come home. An' that's the kind o' hoss you want."