“That’s what Barr told me the other day,” replied Egan, pleasantly. “But if the ducks will persist in bunching where I want to go, I don’t see how I can keep from scaring them away.”
“I was just getting ready to set out my decoys, and you have cheated me out of a day’s wages,” continued Pete.
“I am sorry for that, but I didn’t know they were here,” said Egan. “I ran in to get a shot at some swans we saw up the bay. That story about the decoys is too thin, altogether,” he added, in a lower tone. “Ducks don’t decoy when they are bunched, but only when they are flying. If we hadn’t run in here Barr would have come up to-night with his big gun, and there would have been another slaughter of the innocents.”
The presence of the duck-shooter was a warning to Egan that he had better make sure work in hiding his cutter, or else leave a strong force to guard her; and as he did not want to forego the pleasure of a shot at the swans himself, or ask any of his friends to do it, he ran as far into the creek as the wind would carry him, and made the Sallie fast to a couple of trees that grew close to the water’s edge. This being done, the canoe was brought into requisition. It was pushed through the heavy grass until solid ground was reached, and then the young wild fowlers began their weary work of stalking the swans. After Egan had warned them that they would surely get lost if they were not careful to keep their bearings, they separated, and in less than two minutes after leaving the canoe they were out of sight and hearing of one another. Each one decided for himself which way he ought to go to find the game, and made the best speed he could in that direction, regardless of any obstacles that lay in his path. Don made exceedingly bad work of it. His knowledge of wood-craft was by no means insignificant, but he had never before traveled through a wilderness of reeds and grass; and as there was literally nothing by which he could direct his course, he became bewildered, and, like every one else in a similar predicament, he began grumbling at the sun for being in the wrong quarter of the heavens.
“The sun was just about at meridian when we tied up in the creek,” he soliloquized, “and he ought, by rights, to be setting towards the west; but instead of that, he is going north. I’ll not trust him, for I am sure that Chesapeake Bay lies off in this direction.”
So saying, he turned and went as straight away from it as he could go. He plunged headlong through the thick grass and reeds, paying no heed to the severe scratches his hands and face received, floundered through water that was waist deep, and at the end of half an hour drew up before a little negro cabin, his advent being welcomed by two fierce dogs, which would certainly have laid hold of him had it not been for his double-barrel. They knew there was death in the black muzzles he turned toward them, and so kept at a respectful distance. Their angry barks and growls brought the owner of the cabin to the door. He was a thick-set, ruffianly-looking man, and when Don’s gaze rested on him he told himself that it was a lucky thing for him that he had not come in there without a gun.
“Hallo, uncle,” said he, cheerfully. “Where am I?”
“Whar is you?” repeated the negro, in sullen tones.
“Yes. I want to find my way to the bay; in which direction shall I go? There’s a dollar for you. Perhaps that will loosen your tongue,” said Don, who saw that the negro didn’t care to talk to him. He did not even thank him for the coin which fell at his feet; but he picked it up and said, as he pointed to a well-beaten path that led into the reeds:
“Go dat a way, an’ hit’ll take you plumb to de bay. Don’t turn to de right han’ nor to de lef’, kase if you do, you’ll get los’ suah. Au’ don’t come hyar no mo’, nudder.”