Barlow made no reply. The boy had given him something to think about, and he was as anxious to be rid of his presence as Dan was to get rid of his friend Lester Brigham. He left him without taking the trouble to assign any reason for his hurried departure, and went back to his boat. In the course of the day he and his friends transferred their luggage to the shooting-box, and there they lived until they were ordered out by its indignant owner. As their time was not fully occupied they had leisure to talk about the mail-carrier and Mr. Brigham’s money; and we shall presently see how their numerous consultations resulted.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MAIL-CARRIER IN TROUBLE.
“Here, Dandy! Here Punch! To heel,” said Bert, as he and his four companions started down the shore of the lake in search of their supper.
“Why do you make the dogs go behind?” demanded Hopkins. “Why don’t you hie them on, and perhaps they will stand something for us. I should think this ought to be good quail ground.”
“So it is,” answered Bert. “And if you want a chance at some, we’ll——”
“No we won’t,” interrupted Egan. “If little birds are the height of Hop’s ambition, let him take the pointers some day and go off by himself. We are after ducks now, and we want the dogs to stay with us, and bring our game ashore when we kill it.”
Hopkins made no reply. Like all enthusiastic sportsmen, he had his own ideas of shooting, and he was much more successful with some kinds of game than he was with others. There was no boy who could beat him in getting over a rough country on horseback, when the hounds were in pursuit of a deer or fox; he was almost certain to kill every snipe, quail, or grouse that got up before him; but a wild duck, going down wind with the speed of a lightning express train, bothered him. With all his practice, he had never been able to make a respectable bag of water-fowl; so he stood around, holding his gun in the hollow of his arm, and watched Egan, who cut down every duck that passed anywhere within seventy-five yards of him. The pointers brought them out as fast as they fell into the lake, and it was not long before Bert and Fred Packard, who were polite enough to allow their guests to do all the shooting, had about as many ducks slung over their shoulders as they wanted to carry.
“This is like the handle of a jug—all on one side,” said Hopkins, at length. “I must find something to shoot at, for I can’t carry these loads back home with me.”
He gradually drew away from his companions as he spoke, but he had no intention of going off alone. He kept his eyes on the dogs, and when he saw them looking at him, he waved his hand toward the bushes. The intelligent and well-trained animals understood him, and, believing no doubt that hunting upland birds was easier and pleasanter work than retrieving ducks from the cold waters of the lake, they were prompt to obey the order thus silently conveyed to them. Egan and the rest did not see the dogs when they went away, for their attention was fully occupied with a fine flock of mallards, some of which were coming across the lake, holding a course which promised to bring them within easy range of Egan’s double-barrel. The latter, who was snugly hidden in a thicket of bushes, had cocked both barrels of his gun, and was waiting for the ducks to come a little nearer to his place of concealment, when all on a sudden they took wing and disappeared up the lake. Egan and his companions looked all around to see what had frightened them, and discovered Hopkins and the pointers in the act of crossing a fence that ran between the woods and a brier-patch.
“Now, Hop, that will never do,” cried Egan. “How are we going to get our ducks ashore if you take the dogs away?”