When the issue was thus squarely presented to him, his reply of course, was in the negative. But the night got darker and darker; the decoys heavier and heavier; the water colder and colder. Little by little the glory of the day was draining away. Mr. Kincaid, leaning strongly against the punt-pole, watched him for some time in silence.
"Pretty hard work?" he enquired at last.
"Yes, sir," said Bobby miserably.
"Why is it hard?"
Bobby looked up in surprise.
"Because the water is so cold, and the decoys are hard to lift over the edge," he answered presently.
"No; it's not that," said Mr. Kincaid, "It's because you're thinking about how many more there are to do."
Bobby stopped work in the interest of this idea.
"If you're going to be a hunter—or anything else"—went on Mr. Kincaid after a moment, "you're going to have lots of cold work, and hard work and disagreeable work to do—things that you can't finish in a minute, either, but that may last all day—or all the week. And you'll have to do it. If you get to thinking of how long it's going to take, you'll find that you will have a tough time, and that probably it won't be done very well, either. Don't think of how much there is still to do; think of how much you have done. Then it'll surprise you how soon it will be finished."
"Yes, sir," said Bobby.