It was a clear, cold night in October. The fresh breeze that came in through the window from the bay made blankets comfortable, but neither Don nor Bert would consent to have the windows of their sleeping-room closed. This was the first night they had ever passed within sight of salt water, and they wanted the waves to sing them to sleep. In company with Egan and Curtis they had been spending a few weeks with their fat crony, Hopkins, while awaiting the arrival of the water-fowl, which generally make their appearance in numbers in the northern waters of the Chesapeake, about the middle of October. They had ridden to the hounds, and shot quails and snipes until they were tired of the sport, and this particular night found them at Egan’s home, impatiently waiting for a chance at the far-famed canvas-backs.
They had been there but a few hours, having arrived just at supper-time. Egan’s father and mother extended a most cordial greeting to them, and Mr. Egan, who, as we know, was an old soldier, and who never grew weary of hearing Gus (that was the ex-sergeant’s Christian name) tell about that fight at Hamilton Creek Bridge, would not let the visitors go to bed until he had heard their description of it.
Knowing that her son’s guests would want to see all they could of salt water during their stay in Maryland, Mrs. Egan had furnished for their especial benefit a large back room, which looked out upon the bay, and supplied it with beds enough to accommodate them all. Here, when night came, they could lie at their ease and talk over the day’s exploits until the music of the surf lulled them to sleep. On the night in question their tongues had run with amazing swiftness and persistency until nearly twelve o’clock; then they began answering one another in monosyllables, and finally Don Gordon, who was the last to stop talking, placed his pillow in the open window, in front of which his bed stood, laid his head upon it, and was fast losing himself in dream-land, when suddenly a sound like a single peal of distant thunder came to his ears, and brought him back to earth again.
“Are you all asleep in there?” exclaimed Don, drawing in his head, and speaking to nobody in particular. “What was that?”
“What was what?” asked Egan, drowsily.
“Why, that noise I heard just now. It sounded something like the report of a cannon.”
“Well, it wasn’t a cannon; it was a duck-gun,” replied Egan.
“Oh!” exclaimed Don. “Those poachers are at work, are they?”
“Yes; and you will probably hear that gun a good many times during your stay, if you take the trouble to listen for it,” said Egan. “It is harvest-time with these pot-hunters now, and in a few days they will make the ducks so wild that you can’t get within rifle-shot of them.”
“We don’t have any market-shooters in my State—or at least in the county in which I live—and I am very glad of it,” said Don. “Why don’t the farmers who live along these shores wake up, and put a stop to this night-hunting by capturing the guns? I suppose it would put the poachers to some trouble to get others?”