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At another time, that five-mile drive in the denser darkness, just preceding dawn, would have been long perhaps, the springs of that antiquated buckboard inadequate, the chill of that damp October air piercing; but now–we notice nothing, feel nothing uncomfortable. My teeth chatter a bit now and then, when I am off guard, to be sure; but it is not from cold, and the vehicle might be a Pullman coach for aught I am conscious.

For we have reached the border of the marsh, now, and are skirting its edge, and–Yes, those are ducks, really; that black mass, packed into the cove at the lee of those clustering rushes, protected from the wind, the whole just distinguishable from the lighter shadow of the water: ducks and brant; dots of white, like the first scattered snowflakes on a sooty city roof!

“Mark the right, Sandford,” I whisper in oblivion. “Mark the right!”

And, breaking the spell, Johnson laughs.

CHAPTER VII–THE BACON WHAT AM!

When is bacon bacon, and eggs eggs? When is coffee coffee, and the despised pickerel, fresh from the cold water of the shaded lake, a glorious brown food, fit for the gods?

Answer, while Molly (whose real name is Aunt Martha) serves them to us, forty-five minutes later.

Oh, if we only had time to eat, as that breakfast deserves to be eaten! If we only had time!

But we haven’t; no; Sandford says so, in a voice that leaves no room for argument. The sky is beginning to redden in the east; the surface of the water reflects the glow, like a mirror; and, seen through the tiny-paned windows, black specks, singly and in groups, appear and disappear, in shifting patterns, against the lightening background.

“No more now, Aunt Martha–no. Wait until noon; just wait–and then watch us! Ready, Ed?”

“Waiting for you, Sam.” It’s been a year since I called him by his Christian name; but I never notice, nor does he. “All ready.”

“Better try the point this morning; don’t you think, Johnson?”

“Yes, if you’ve your eye with ye. Won’t wait while y’ sprinkle salt on their tails, them red-heads and canvas boys. No, sir-ree.”

CHAPTER VIII–FEATHERED BULLETS

The breath of us is whistling through our nostrils, like the muffled exhaust of a gasoline engine, and our hearts are thumping two-steps on our ribs from the exertion, when we reach the end of the rock-bestrewn point which, like a long index finger, is thrust out into the bosom of the lake. The wind, still dead north, and laden with tiny drops of moisture, like spray from a giant atomizer, buffets us steadily; but thereof we are sublimely unconscious.

For at last we are there, there; precisely where we were yesterday–no, a year ago–and the light is strong enough now, so that when our gun-barrels stand out against the sky, we can see the sights, and–

Down! Down, behind the nearest stunted willow tree; behind anything–quick!–for they’re coming: a great dim wedge, with the apex toward us, coming swiftly on wings that propel two miles to the minute, when backed by a wind that makes a mile in one.

Coming–no; arrived. Fair overhead are the white of breasts, of plump bodies flashing through the mist, the swishing hiss of many wings cutting the air, the rhythmic pat, pat–“Bang! Bang!”

Was it Sandford’s gun, or was it mine? Who knows? The reports were simultaneous.

And then–splash! and a second later,–splash! as two dots leave the hurtling wedge and, with folded wings, pitch at an angle, following their own momentum, against the dull brown surface of the rippling water.

Through the intervening branches and dead sunflower stalks, I look at Sandford–to find that Sandford is looking at me.

“Good work, old man!” I say, and notice that my voice is a little higher than normal.

“Good work, yourself,”–generously. “I missed clean, both barrels. Do better next time, though, perhaps…. Down! Mark north! Take the leader, you.”

From out the mist, dead ahead, just skimming the surface of the water, and coming straight at us, like a mathematically arranged triangle of cannon balls, taking definite form and magnitude oh, so swiftly, unbelievably swift; coming–yes–directly overhead, as before, the pulsing, echoing din in our ears.