ng to quit, are you?" he asked.

Bobby had not thought of it with this definiteness.

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.

"Now pick 'em up," said Mr. Kincaid, "one at a time. Don't begin to pick
up the next one before you get this one out of the water."

Bobby went at it grimly, trying to keep in mind Mr. Kincaid's advice.
The task was as disagreeable, and apparently as interminable as ever,
but Bobby had gained this: he had not now, even in the subconscious
background of his mind, any desire to quit; and there no longer pressed
upon the weight and cold of the decoy he was at the moment handling, the
useless and imaginary, but real, cold and weight of all the decoys yet
to be lifted.

Nevertheless he was very glad when the last had found its place on the
pile amidship.

"Good boy!" said Mr. Kincaid. "Now it's all over."

It was somewhat after twilight; although objects about were still to be
made out in the unearthly half-illumination that precedes starlight. Mr.
Kincaid lifted his punt-pole and allowed the duck-boat to be carried
down wind to the other side of the pond. Here floated the dead ducks.
They were lying all along th