"Do you mean mine?"
"Yes. Why, it's just ragged. Knocked it out of a stone wall, didn't you? It's all corners."
"What do you want more'n that? Isn't it big enough?"
"Yes; only you fellows stand too near. A little nearer, and you could poke the duck off its nest with a stick. Why don't you get some smooth clean round stones that'll throw straight, and that'll just balance and teter when they're ducks. Why don't you get a decent nest, with a smooth round top, that a duck'll scare from easy? We don't do things in any such way as that over in Putney."
The Rockville boys felt that there was something awful in being lectured after such a fashion, right before Joe Biddle's city cousin. Just as if they didn't know how to play duck!
Nevertheless, there sat Bill Eaton's duck, solid as ever, and twice as ugly. Every duck stone that was pitched at it tumbled to the ground in disgrace, and lay there with an increasing look of being unfit for its business.
"I say, Charley McGraw," exclaimed Jake Potter at last, "where do you Putney fellows get your duck-stones? Make 'em?"
"Wade for 'em in the creek. You've got as much creek as we have. 'Fraid of getting your feet wet?"
"Boys," suddenly shouted Mort Senter, "tell you what. Let's leave Bill Eaton to watch his duck, while we go down to the old hole and have a swim. Get some new stones to pitch with. Lots of 'em there—smoothest kind."
"Better get a new nest too," said Charley. "Get a good one."