The approaching flock changed its course as soon as the yacht rounded the point, and having seen them well started on their way toward the middle of the bay, Don turned to look at the sink-boat. It was in reality a floating blind—an anchored box with hinged flaps to keep the waves from washing into it. When these sink-boats are used the gunner lies on his back completely out of sight, and shoots into the passing flocks as they swing to his decoys. The birds he kills are picked up by a confederate, who also skirmishes around in his canoe, putting up every flock he can find, and trying to start them toward the gunner. If the latter has all the sport, he likewise has the hardest part of the work to perform. It is drowning work when the sea comes up suddenly and fills his box full of water before his companion in the canoe can get him out of it; it is freezing work when the wind chops around to the north and drives the rain and sleet before it with cutting force; it is uncertain work when that same wind drives the ducks off shore to the open waters of the bay; and it is tiresome and unpleasant owing to the cramped position the gunner is compelled to occupy. But, as a general thing, he shoots plenty of birds, and those he doesn’t shoot he frightens away so that no one else can shoot them.
As Don looked at the sink-boat he saw the occupant’s head rise slowly above the side of it. He gazed in every direction to see what it was that had frightened the flock for which he had been so long and patiently waiting, and which he had hoped would alight among his decoys, and finally he turned his face towards the yacht. It was a very savage looking face, thought Bert, who was gazing at it through Egan’s binoculars, and that the owner of it felt savage was made evident by the first words he uttered.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAN IN THE SINK-BOAT.
When the man in the sink-boat discovered the approaching yacht he laid down his gun, got upon his knees, and shook both his fists at the boy who stood at the helm.
“You’re always around when you are not wanted, Gus Egan,” said he, fiercely. “If you know when you are well off, you will learn to mind your own business. I’ve the best notion in the world to send a charge of duck-shot after you.”
“He would do it in a minute if he thought he could escape the consequences,” said Egan, in a low tone. “He is one of the fellows who has so often threatened me. The detective took his big gun away from him, and now he has to resort to a sink-boat to get birds for market.”
“I shouldn’t like to make an enemy of that man,” observed Bert, as he passed the glass over to Hopkins. “Unless his countenance belies him, he is capable of doing anything.”
“His face is a true index to his character,” replied Egan. “He is accused of almost everything that’s bad, and some day there will be trouble in this neighborhood. He is under indictment for shooting ducks contrary to law, but he says he will get up the biggest kind of a fight before he will be arrested, and he means every word of it.”
“If that yawl of yours scares just one more flock of ducks for me, she will never scare another,” continued the man in the sink-boat. “You have done about damage enough on this bay by taking the bread out of poor men’s mouths, and it is high time you were larnt better manners.”
Egan, who did not act as though he had either seen or heard the occupant of the sink-boat, kept the Sallie away a point or two, so as to clear the outer edge of the decoys, and ran on down the bay until he came opposite to a small board cabin that stood on the shore in the midst of a little grove; then he threw the yacht up into the wind and called out: “O Eph!” whereupon an aged negro, who was sitting on a bench beside the open door, arose and hobbled down to the beach, bowing and pulling at his almost brimless hat as he came.