One was Jack Nelson; the other Sleuth Piper.
CHAPTER XII.
DISAPPOINTED DUCK HUNTERS.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” exclaimed Hooker, in mingled astonishment and anger.
Nelson, whose dog had done the retrieving, beamed pleasantly on the disappointed and wrathy young sportsmen. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re out for a little shooting, I see. Had any luck?”
“Yes—rotten,” flung back Hooker. “Confound you fellows! you spoiled the morning for us.”
“Really?” chirped Nelson, in pretended surprise, elevating his eyebrows. “How was that?”
“You know how,” grated Sage hotly. “You did it purposely, too. But I suppose it was that pestering, sly, conceited, cheap imitator of Sherlock Holmes who is really responsible.”
Piper looked aggrieved. “If you’re referring to me,” he said, “permit me to inform you that I’m not at all pleased by your insulting language.”
“I didn’t intend you should be,” Fred flung back; “and you’d be less pleased if I could find appropriate words to express my opinion of you. It was a miserable, low-down trick you fellows played on us this morning, and you know it.”
“Now hold on,” Nelson commanded, his cheerful manner vanishing. “We won’t stand for any of that. We’ve as much right to shoot ducks on this pond as you have.”