Immediately Hooker swerved toward the dog and advanced as swiftly and noiselessly as possible, in order to obtain a position for a shot when the bird should flush. Reaching a favorable spot, he placed himself in position to shoot and waited for the rise.
The seconds passed slowly—so slowly that to the anxious boys they seemed more like minutes. A chickadee flitted through the bushes, lighted on a branch within five feet of Roy, performed some surprising horizontal bar evolutions and applauded himself in a ludicrously hoarse voice. Something rustled at a distance, like a creature running swiftly along the ground. Far away, so far that it was but faintly heard, the gun of some other hunter spoke.
With a sudden whirr of wings a woodcock rose straight up from the further side of the cluster of bushes. The butt of Sage’s gun came to his shoulder, his eye caught the sights, and he fired.
Hooker was a trifle slower, but ere Sage, realizing that he had shot too quickly and therefore made a miss, could fire again, Roy’s weapon spoke.
Down came the bird into the midst of the thicket.
“Good work, old man,” cried Fred approvingly. “You got him. I shot under; didn’t wait for him to make his full rise. Go fetch, Spot.”
The dog, released from the spell that had chained him motionless, plunged forward, sniffing around in search of the bird. In a few moments he brought the dead woodcock and placed it at his master’s feet.
“A plump fellow,” laughed Sage, holding the kill up for the other lad to see. “That’s the first blood for you, Roy. Shall I put it in my bag?”
“Sure; I haven’t any. There’s likely more of them near by.”
There were more, and Sage evened things up by bringing down the next one. After this both boys missed a shot, and, though they had tried to “mark” their birds when they lighted, they beat back and forth for more than half an hour without getting another flush.