The rattle of wheels close behind assured them that Frank and his load were near.
“Kansas certainly takes the cake for climate,” Dick called to them, happily reckless about corrupting the young folk with his slang. Alice promptly reproached him.
“Mrs. Morton would send you home by the first train if she heard you.”
Dick assumed an air of mock woe. “Oh, I say there, Chicken Little, don’t mention that little matter of the cake–that particular cake isn’t respectable, Alice says.”
It was Frank who got the first shot.
“Here, Marian, take the lines quick. Hold them tight–they may jump when I fire. Turn out of the road–to the right–slowly now. Stop!”
Frank drew the gun to his shoulder and took careful aim while the others were still vainly trying to see something to shoot at. A snap, a flash, 115and a bird whirred up a hundred paces away, flew a few feet from the ground, and fell.
Frank ran to the spot and held up a good-sized plover. Marian and Alice examined it pitifully.
“What a slender delicate thing it is! It seems a shame to kill it. I like the excitement of hunting but I always want to cry over the victims,” said Alice with a sigh.
Sherm caught sight of a covey soon after. He and Ernest slipped out of the wagon and stole up as close as possible. Ernest got two with the scattering bird shot, but Sherm missed.