Disappointed, but not discouraged, the journey was continued, until the base of a high elevation was directly before them. The slope was beautifully wooded, and they lost no time in beginning what proved to be a very hard climb. Small game was plentiful, none, however, drawing forth a shot.
The boys were all thoroughly tired when they stood upon the summit of the ridge and gazed down upon another lake.
"Ducks!" cried John Hackett. "Just look at those spots on the water."
The eight young sportsmen feasted their eyes upon the alluring sight.
"Let us circle around and get on the leeward side," said Bob. "Don't make a sound."
"We ought to get a dozen," whispered Dick Travers, excitedly.
"A dozen," said John Hackett, "a dozen? Just wait until I draw a bead upon them; it's going to be a bad day in the duck family. Come on! What are we standing here for?"
It required fully half an hour before the young hunters reached the coveted position. Then, screened by a perfect bower of small trees which reached clear to the water's edge, they began manœuvering to get in range.
On the alert to acquit himself with glory, John Hackett could no longer resist the temptation to fire, especially as to his excited imagination the birds were about to rise in a body. Suddenly bringing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. A loud report sounded, instantly followed by a most deafening succession of shots that awakened echoes from far and wide. The members of the two clubs had observed Hackett's action just in time, and not intending to be deprived of their share in the sport, had instantly leveled their guns and fired.
A tremendous amount of white smoke began to slowly clear away, when it became apparent that the result of their shooting was both unexpected and extraordinary.