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, p