“Well, I’m mighty relieved, as the broncho said when he bucked the man off. You see, I thought they were wild ducks, and when they wouldn’t fly, I was afraid they were degenerating. Of course, as they were tame ducks, it’s all right.” Pete waded out of the water and the setter laid back his ears and growled suspiciously. “Hello, dog!” said Pete, as he went toward where he had deposited his shoes, stockings, and rifle.
“Just stay where you are, please!” said the man. He waved toward Pete’s possessions. The dog trotted over to them and stood guard, watching their owner intently. Pete’s grin broadened. He tossed down the duck he had rescued.
“There’s another out there,” he said. “Guess the dog could get it, couldn’t he?”
“Where do you gentlemen belong?” asked the man. The gentlemen exchanged glances. Then—
“Centerport,” answered Allan.
“Students?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph!” said the owner of the ducks. “Want me to believe you thought my ducks were wild ones, do you?”
“You don’t suppose we’d walk six miles to shoot tame ones, do you?” asked Pete, scathingly. The man shrugged his shoulders.