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CHAPTER X–UPON “WIPING THE EYE”

“To poets and epicures, perhaps, the lordly canvas-back–though brown from the oven, I challenge the supercilious gourmet to distinguish between his favorite, and a fat American coot. But for me the loud-voiced mallard, with his bottle-green head and audaciously curling tail; for he will decoy.”

I am quoting Sandford. Be that as it may, we are there, amid frost-browned rushes that rustle softly in the wind: a patch of shallow open water, perhaps an acre in extent, to the leeward of us, where the decoys, heading all to windward, bob gently with the slight swell.

“Now this is something like sport,” adds my companion, settling back comfortably in the slough-grass blind, built high to the north to cut out the wind, and low to the south to let in the sun. “On the point, there, this morning you scored on me, I admit it; but this is where I shine: real shooting; one, or a pair at most, at a time; no scratches; no excuses. Lead on, MacDuff, and if you miss, all’s fair to the second gun.”

“All right, Sam.”

“No small birds, either, understand: no teal, or widgeon, or shovellers. This is a mallard hole. Nothing but mallards goes.”

“All right, Sam.”

“Now is your chance, then…. Now!”

He’s right. Now is my chance, indeed.

Over the sea of rushes, straight toward us, is coming a pair, a single pair; and, yes, they are unmistakably mallards. It is feeding time, or resting time, and they are flying lazily, long necks extended, searching here and there for the promised lands. Our guns indubitably cover it; and though I freeze still and motionless, my nerves stretch tight in anticipation, until they tingle all but painfully.

On the great birds come; on and still on, until in another second–

That instant they see the decoys, and, warned simultaneously by an ancestral suspicion, they swing outward in a great circle, without apparent effort on their part, to reconnoitre.

Though I do not stir, I hear the pat! pat! of their wings, as they pass by at the side, just out of gunshot. Then, pat! pat! back of me, then, pat! pat! on the other side, until once again I see them, from the tail of my eye, merge into view ahead.

All is well–very well–and, suspicions wholly allayed at last, they whirl for the second oncoming; just above the rushes, now; wings spread wide and motionless; sailing nearer, nearer–

“Now!” whispers Sandford, “now!”

Out of our nest suddenly peeps my gun barrel; and, simultaneously, the wings, a second before motionless, begin to beat the air in frantic retreat.

But it is too late.

Bang! What! not a feather drops?… Bang! Quack! Quack! Bang! Bang!… Splash!… Quack! Quack! Quack!

That is the story–all except for Sandford’s derisive laugh.

“What’d I tell you?” he exults. “Wiped your eye for you that time, didn’t I?”

“How in the world I missed–” It is all that I can say. “They looked as big as–as suspended tubs.”

“Buck-fever,” explains Sandford, laconically.

“That’s all right.” I feel my fighting-blood rising, and I swear with a mighty wordless oath that I’ll be avenged for that laugh. “The day is young yet. If, before night, I don’t wipe both your eyes, and wipe them good–“

“I know you will, old man.” Sandford is smiling understandingly, and in a flash I return the smile with equal understanding. “And when you do, laugh at me, laugh long and loud.”

CHAPTER XI–THE COLD GRAY DAWN

At a quarter of twelve o’clock a week later, I slip out of my office sheepishly, and, walking a half-block, take the elevator to the fifth floor of the Exchange Building, on the corner. The white enamel of Sandford’s tiny box of an office glistens, as I enter the door, and the tiling looks fresh and clean, as though scrubbed an hour before.

“Doctor’s back in the laboratory,” smiles the white-uniformed attendant, as she grasps my identity.

On a tall stool, beside the laboratory lathe, sits Sandford, hard at work. He acknowledges my presence with a nod–and that is all.

“Noon, Sandford,” I announce.

“Is it?” laconically.

“Thought I’d drop over to the club for lunch, and a little smoke afterward. Want to go along?”

“Can’t.” The whirr of the electric lathe never ceases. “Got to finish this bridge before one o’clock. Sorry, old man.”

“Harry just ‘phoned and asked me to come and bring you.” I throw the bait with studied nicety. “He’s getting up a party to go out to Johnson’s, and wants to talk things over a bit in advance.”

“Harry!” Irony fairly drips from the voice. “He’s always going somewhere. Mustn’t have much else to do. Anyway, can’t possibly meet him this noon.”

“To-night, then.” I suggest tentatively. “He can wait until then, I’m sure.”

“Got to work to-night, too. Things are all piled up on me.” Sandford applies a fresh layer of pumice to the swiftly moving polishing wheel, with practised accuracy. “Tell Harry I’m sorry; but business is business, you know.”

“Purr-r-r!” drones on the lathe, “purr-r-r!” I hear it as I silently slip away.

Yes, Sandford is sane; and will be for fifty-one weeks.