Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The Angry Duck-hunter.

ROD AND GUN SERIES.

THE
YOUNG WILD-FOWLERS.

By HARRY CASTLEMON,

AUTHOR OF “THE GUNBOAT SERIES,” “BOY TRAPPER SERIES,” “ROUGHING IT SERIES,” ETC.

PHILADELPHIA:

PORTER & COATES.

Copyright, 1885,

BY

PORTER & COATES.

CONTENTS.

THE YOUNG WILD-FOWLERS.

CHAPTER I.
AT EGAN’S HOME.

“What was that noise, Bert?”

Don Gordon raised his head from his pillow, and supporting himself on his elbow, looked out at the open window toward the surf that was rolling in upon the beach, and listened intently.

It was a clear, cold night in October. The fresh breeze that came in through the window from the bay made blankets comfortable, but neither Don nor Bert would consent to have the windows of their sleeping-room closed. This was the first night they had ever passed within sight of salt water, and they wanted the waves to sing them to sleep. In company with Egan and Curtis they had been spending a few weeks with their fat crony, Hopkins, while awaiting the arrival of the water-fowl, which generally make their appearance in numbers in the northern waters of the Chesapeake, about the middle of October. They had ridden to the hounds, and shot quails and snipes until they were tired of the sport, and this particular night found them at Egan’s home, impatiently waiting for a chance at the far-famed canvas-backs.

They had been there but a few hours, having arrived just at supper-time. Egan’s father and mother extended a most cordial greeting to them, and Mr. Egan, who, as we know, was an old soldier, and who never grew weary of hearing Gus (that was the ex-sergeant’s Christian name) tell about that fight at Hamilton Creek Bridge, would not let the visitors go to bed until he had heard their description of it.

Knowing that her son’s guests would want to see all they could of salt water during their stay in Maryland, Mrs. Egan had furnished for their especial benefit a large back room, which looked out upon the bay, and supplied it with beds enough to accommodate them all. Here, when night came, they could lie at their ease and talk over the day’s exploits until the music of the surf lulled them to sleep. On the night in question their tongues had run with amazing swiftness and persistency until nearly twelve o’clock; then they began answering one another in monosyllables, and finally Don Gordon, who was the last to stop talking, placed his pillow in the open window, in front of which his bed stood, laid his head upon it, and was fast losing himself in dream-land, when suddenly a sound like a single peal of distant thunder came to his ears, and brought him back to earth again.

“Are you all asleep in there?” exclaimed Don, drawing in his head, and speaking to nobody in particular. “What was that?”

“What was what?” asked Egan, drowsily.

“Why, that noise I heard just now. It sounded something like the report of a cannon.”

“Well, it wasn’t a cannon; it was a duck-gun,” replied Egan.

“Oh!” exclaimed Don. “Those poachers are at work, are they?”

“Yes; and you will probably hear that gun a good many times during your stay, if you take the trouble to listen for it,” said Egan. “It is harvest-time with these pot-hunters now, and in a few days they will make the ducks so wild that you can’t get within rifle-shot of them.”

“We don’t have any market-shooters in my State—or at least in the county in which I live—and I am very glad of it,” said Don. “Why don’t the farmers who live along these shores wake up, and put a stop to this night-hunting by capturing the guns? I suppose it would put the poachers to some trouble to get others?”

“Well—yes; and to some little expense also,” replied the ex-sergeant. “How much do you suppose one of those big guns cost?”

Don replied that he had no idea, having never seen one of them.

“I saw one last summer that cost six hundred dollars in England,” continued Egan. “It was captured by a detective who was sent here by some Baltimore sportsmen. You see, some of the rich men who live in that city, and in New York and Philadelphia, pay high prices for the exclusive use of a portion of these ducking shores, and they get mad when the market-shooters come around with their howitzers, and scare all the birds away to other feeding-grounds.”

“I don’t blame them for getting mad,” said Don.

“Neither do I. If a man pays four or five hundred dollars a year for a shooting privilege, it is because he thinks he and his friends will have some sport out of it.”

“You don’t mean to say that these shores rent for any such sum as that!” exclaimed Don.

“Don’t I, though?” replied Egan. “Father has been importuned time and again to lease his shores to different clubs, and he might as well make five hundred or a thousand dollars a year as to let it alone; but he likes to shoot as well as anybody, and he likes to see his visitors enjoy themselves, so he keeps his ducking-points for his own use.”

“Do the big-gunners ever trouble you by shooting over your grounds?”

“Not to any great extent. You see the ducks don’t bed in these narrows; they want plenty of elbow-room.”

“What do you mean by ‘bed’?” inquired Don.

“Why, when the ducks gather in large flocks and sit on the water, either during the day-time or at night, they are said to ‘bed’ or ‘bunch.’ When a market-shooter finds one of these beds in the bay, he watches it to see that it does not break up, and when darkness comes to conceal his movements, he goes out and shoots into it. He sometimes gets as many as eighty ducks at a single discharge of his blunderbuss.”

“How large a load does that blunderbuss carry?”

“Half a pound of powder and two pounds of shot.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Don. “How heavy is it?”

“The one I saw weighed a hundred and sixty pounds,” replied Egan. “It was ten feet long.”

“There ought to be a law prohibiting the use of such weapons,” said Don, indignantly.

“There is a law which says that you not only shall not use them, but that you must not have them in your possession,” answered Egan. “If you violate that law, you render yourself liable to a fine of two hundred dollars or imprisonment; but who is there about here who is going to complain of you?”

“Why, the men who own these shores,” replied Don.

“They dare not do it,” said Egan.

“Well, I would do it if I lived here,” declared Don, with a good deal of earnestness.

“Then you would find yourself in trouble directly. These big-gunners are a desperate lot of men, the first thing you know, and they will not submit to any interference in their business.”

“If the law says they shan’t follow that business, I don’t see how they are going to help themselves,” said Don.

“They can take revenge on any one who incurs their displeasure, can’t they? They can and they will. If a person renders himself obnoxious to them, the first thing he knows some of his buildings will go up in smoke, or his boats will be smashed, or the rigging of his yacht cut, or his oyster-bed will be fouled. Why, they don’t hesitate to make a fight with the police, if they are surprised at their business. That Baltimore detective, who worked his way into their good graces and joined them in their night excursions, said that the smack he went out in was as thoroughly armed as any little pirate.”

“I’d like to go out with them just once in order to see how they operate,” said Don, in whom the love of adventure was as strong as it ever had been. “They must see plenty of excitement.”

Egan, who was more than half asleep, replied that they probably did, especially while they were dodging the police-boats; but he did not believe that his friend Don would ever learn by personal observation how the big-gunners conducted their business. Well, he didn’t; but there were others of our characters who did, and who they were, and how they came to be permitted to accompany the poachers on one of their nocturnal expeditions, shall be told further on.

Don would have been glad to hear more of the big-gunners, but a gentle snore coming from the other side of the room told him that Egan had gone to sleep again; so he rearranged his pillow and prepared to go to sleep himself.

The morning dawned bright and clear, and with just enough frost in the salt air to make it invigorating, and to send the blood coursing through one’s veins with accelerated speed. The visitors, who had not been given much opportunity to look about them the night before, were up at the first peep of day, and their host led them out to show them what there was to be seen. As he opened the door and stepped upon the porch, he was greeted by four large, shaggy dogs, which fawned upon him with every demonstration of delight, but showed their white teeth to the other boys when they attempted to scrape an acquaintance with them.

“They are as ugly in disposition as they are homely in appearance,” said Curtis. “Egan, why do you keep such worthless brutes about you?”

“They are not worthless,” answered the ex-sergeant. “They would sell to-day for two hundred dollars apiece to any one of a dozen men whose names I could mention.”

“What makes them so valuable?” asked Curtis. “They don’t look as though they are worth feeding.”

“I know they are not handsome, but they are very useful,” replied Egan. “They are called Chesapeake Bay dogs, and they belong to a breed that are considered to be the best retrievers in the world. You don’t need a boat to pick up your wounded ducks when you have one of these fellows in the blind with you, and neither do you have to tell him when to go out after a bird. If you kill half a dozen ducks and wound one, he will swim straight through the dead ones and take after the wounded one; and he’ll have it, too, before he comes back to the shore. That one,” continued Egan, pointing to the largest of the dogs, “once swam more than three miles through floating ice in pursuit of a wing-tipped canvas-back. Father was in the blind with me, and he was so very much afraid that he was going to lose the dog, that he sent me out in a boat to pick him up. When I overtook him he had the bird, and was striking out for the shore, apparently none the worse for his long cold swim. Dogs of this breed are very enduring while they last, but in the end they are laid up with rheumatism, just as a man would be who spent his life as they do. Now, come with me, and I will show you the swiftest and handiest little boat on the bay. I call her a cutter for short, and that is what almost every one else calls her; but she isn’t a cutter—she’s a yawl.”

The boys followed their host along a broad walk, through an extensive and well-kept flower-garden which, in the proper season, must have been one solid mass of bloom, and down to a little stream that flowed into the bay a short distance from the house. On the bank they found a snug boat-house, which was used as a place of storage for two or three canoes, oyster-dredges, lobster-pots, and various other things which none of the visitors, except Hopkins, knew the use of. One of the canoes having been shoved into the water, the boys got into it, and pushed off toward a couple of little vessels that were riding at anchor in the bay. One of them was an oyster-boat—Don and Bert were sure of that, for in rig and model she corresponded with the descriptions they had read of such vessels; but the other one puzzled them. She was not a sloop, for she had two masts; and yet she was not a schooner, because the mizzen mast, if that was the proper name for it, was stepped close to the stern. But she was a beautiful little vessel they found when they boarded her, and very roomy, too, although she was only seventeen feet in length, with five feet beam. She had a house or hatch on deck, which proved to be the top of the cabin, and a small cock-pit, in which the boy who managed the helm stood or sat while he steered the vessel. The cabin was spacious, owing to the deep, straight sides of the boat, and was provided with two berths, one on each side, which could be turned up against the bulk-head, or let down at pleasure, like the berths in a sleeping-car. Behind the foremast, which came down through the forward end of the cabin, was the alcohol stove, on which the captain and owner cooked all his meals while he was cruising about the bay—that is, when he didn’t feel in the humor to go ashore to cook them, or couldn’t get ashore on account of the surf. There were two water-tanks, plenty of lockers in which to stow food, clothing, and hunting and fishing accoutrements—in short, she seemed to be perfect in every particular; and Don and Bert, who, as we know, took almost as much delight in a sail-boat as they did in their ponies, were prompt to say so.

“Yes, I am rather proud of her, because she was built according to my own ideas of what a boat for single-handed cruising ought to be,” said Egan, as he led the way out of the cabin, and seated himself in the cock-pit. “First and foremost, you can’t capsize her. If the Mystery had been built after this model she would have weathered that gale without shipping so much as a bucket of water.”

(It will be remembered that the Mystery was a yacht belonging to Mr. Packard, a brother of Judge Packard, who was General Gordon’s nearest neighbor. Accompanied by his wife and child, and two or three friends, the Mystery’s owner set sail from Newport for Bridgeport, but was overtaken on the way by a terrific storm, which wrecked his yacht, and sent her to the bottom. Her entire crew would have gone with her, had it not been for the fact that Enoch Williams and his crowd of deserters, who had run away in the Sylph, were close at hand. Enoch and Lester Brigham went off in a small boat, and saved the yacht’s crew at the risk of their own lives, and when they were captured by Captain Mack and his men, who were following close in their wake in the schooner Idlewild, and taken back to the academy under arrest, they were looked upon as heroes rather than culprits. Their act of bravery did not, however, save them from a court-martial. They lost every one of the credit marks they had earned during the term, and that took away their last chance for promotion. Egan and his friends could recall all the incidents connected with the wreck and the rescue, and they became excited whenever they thought of them.)

“What do you mean by ‘single-handed cruising’?” asked Curtis, continuing the conversation which we have for the moment interrupted. “Can one person handle this boat in all kinds of weather?”

“Certainly; and there is where the beauty of her rig shows itself. If I want to beat in or out of a narrow channel I run up the mainsail only, and then she works like a cat-boat, never missing stays, but keeping her headway clear around. If I am caught out in a gale, I drop the mainsail, and scud along under the jib and mizzen. I have stayed out on the bay alone, fooling around, when boats that were twice as big as this were running for shelter. I expect to lose her some day, but it will be through no fault of my own.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Bert.

“Why, I am accused of having assisted that detective in running those big-gunners to earth last fall,” answered Egan. “I didn’t do it, but some of their friends saw me talking with the detective on several different occasions, and they know that I detest their business, for I have often said so when perhaps I ought to have kept my tongue still. It is very plain that somebody gave the detective all the information he wanted, and, as I said, these poachers lay it to me. They have sent me word that they intend to get even with me, and that’s why I expect to lose my boat.”

“Can’t you head them off in any way?” asked Don, whose chivalrous nature revolted at the mere mention of so cowardly a way of “getting even.” “You are not obliged to stand still and see your property destroyed.”

“Of course not, and I don’t intend to do it, either,” said Egan, in very decided tones. “These boats are guarded every night, and have been for a year. One of our darkies sleeps on board the oyster-boat, and he has two of the retrievers and a loaded musket for company. It will be a cold season when those dogs get left, for they are all ears and nose, and would rather fight than eat when they are hungry. Now, perhaps, we had better go ashore. Breakfast will be ready directly, and then we will take a run down the bay, unless you can think of something else you would rather do.”

The boys hastened to assure their host that they couldn’t think of anything that would afford them so much pleasure as a sail in his neat little cutter, and so one day’s sport was provided for. We may run far enough ahead of our story to say that they thoroughly enjoyed their boat-ride, but whether or not they saw any fun in some things that followed close upon the heels of it, is another matter altogether.

Having drawn the canoe high and dry upon the beach, the boys went into the house and up to Egan’s room, which contained his small but well-chosen library, his hunting and fishing outfit, and a few specimens of his skill as a sportsman and cabinet-maker; for Egan understood the use of tools, and spent every stormy day when at home in his shop. Prominent among his specimens was a magnificent white swan which, after being so badly wounded that it could not take wing, had led him a two hours’ chase in the teeth of a fierce gale, and through water covered with huge cakes of ice, that every now and then were thrown by the waves against the sides of his yacht with force enough to make her tremble all over.

“I had a jolly time, but a wet one,” said Egan, whose eyes sparkled with excitement when he spoke of the circumstance. “But didn’t father scold me when I came ashore? Well, I deserved it, for it was a careless trick, going out in all that wind and ice when not another boat would venture away from the shore; but I wanted the swan, and I desired to test my yacht, which had come into my possession only a week before, and that was the reason I did it. By the way,” added Egan, pointing to something which, enclosed in a frame of his own construction, hung suspended from the swan’s long, white neck, “do you know what that is?”

Yes, the boys knew what it was as soon as they looked at it. It was the five dollar bill that the paymaster had given him for the part he had borne in putting down the Hamilton riot. Every boy who was in that fight had received the same amount, and they had one and all declared that nothing could induce them to spend a cent of it; but the pancakes at Cony Ryan’s proved to be too strong a temptation for some of them to resist, and our five friends were among the very few who had held to their resolution.

Breakfast being over and a substantial lunch provided, the boys returned to the cutter, which had been christened the “Sallie” by her proud captain and owner. Hopkins declared that she was named after Asa Peters’ sweetheart—the one he had intended to take to the show on the day that Don and Egan borrowed his clothes; but the indignant master of the yacht affirmed that there wasn’t a word of truth in it, adding that if he had been going to name his boat after anybody’s girl, he would have named her after his own, who was by all odds the very handsomest one in America.

Having stowed their guns and cartridge-belts away in one of the lockers, the boys went on deck to get the yacht under way. Egan was the only sailor in the party, but the others, who, during their cruise in the Idlewild in pursuit of Enoch Williams and his band of deserters, had learned to tell a halliard from a down-haul, were able to give him considerable assistance, and in a very few minutes the Sallie was flying down the bay with all her canvas set except the big topsail, which her cautious captain did not think she could stand, seeing that there was no boat for her to race with, and no wing-tipped swan scudding along in front of her.

Being fairly under way, the boys began amusing themselves as live boys generally do when they are entirely satisfied with themselves and their surroundings—by singing songs and telling stories. Egan, who stood at the helm, was roaring out (with little regard to time and melody, it must be confessed), “I’m going to fight mid Zeigle,” when, just as he was saying that he would like to have “sweitzer kase and pretzel” for rations rather than “salty pork,” the Sallie shot around a low point which jutted out into the bay, and bore swiftly down upon what appeared to be an immense flock of canvas-backs and red-heads. They were floating about among the waves with their heads erect, as if they were on the point of taking wing, while about two hundred yards farther down the bay, approaching on rapid pinion, was another and much larger flock, which was already beginning to “swing” as if preparing to alight among the ducks on the water.

“Great Scott!” cried Don, making a headlong rush for the companion ladder. “Why didn’t I bring my gun up with me?”

“Well, that is rich!” exclaimed Egan, with a hearty laugh. “I thought you had hunted ducks often enough to know the difference between a live bird and a decoy. Don’t you see that sink-box right in the midst of them?”

Yes, Don saw it, after he had taken another and a closer look, and he saw too that the objects which he had at the first glance mistaken for canvas-backs and red-heads, were wooden counterfeits, so closely resembling live birds in form and coloring that almost anybody, except an expert, would have been deceived.

The approaching flock changed its course as soon as the yacht rounded the point, and having seen them well started on their way toward the middle of the bay, Don turned to look at the sink-boat. It was in reality a floating blind—an anchored box with hinged flaps to keep the waves from washing into it. When these sink-boats are used the gunner lies on his back completely out of sight, and shoots into the passing flocks as they swing to his decoys. The birds he kills are picked up by a confederate, who also skirmishes around in his canoe, putting up every flock he can find, and trying to start them toward the gunner. If the latter has all the sport, he likewise has the hardest part of the work to perform. It is drowning work when the sea comes up suddenly and fills his box full of water before his companion in the canoe can get him out of it; it is freezing work when the wind chops around to the north and drives the rain and sleet before it with cutting force; it is uncertain work when that same wind drives the ducks off shore to the open waters of the bay; and it is tiresome and unpleasant owing to the cramped position the gunner is compelled to occupy. But, as a general thing, he shoots plenty of birds, and those he doesn’t shoot he frightens away so that no one else can shoot them.

As Don looked at the sink-boat he saw the occupant’s head rise slowly above the side of it. He gazed in every direction to see what it was that had frightened the flock for which he had been so long and patiently waiting, and which he had hoped would alight among his decoys, and finally he turned his face towards the yacht. It was a very savage looking face, thought Bert, who was gazing at it through Egan’s binoculars, and that the owner of it felt savage was made evident by the first words he uttered.

CHAPTER II.
THE MAN IN THE SINK-BOAT.

When the man in the sink-boat discovered the approaching yacht he laid down his gun, got upon his knees, and shook both his fists at the boy who stood at the helm.

“You’re always around when you are not wanted, Gus Egan,” said he, fiercely. “If you know when you are well off, you will learn to mind your own business. I’ve the best notion in the world to send a charge of duck-shot after you.”

“He would do it in a minute if he thought he could escape the consequences,” said Egan, in a low tone. “He is one of the fellows who has so often threatened me. The detective took his big gun away from him, and now he has to resort to a sink-boat to get birds for market.”

“I shouldn’t like to make an enemy of that man,” observed Bert, as he passed the glass over to Hopkins. “Unless his countenance belies him, he is capable of doing anything.”

“His face is a true index to his character,” replied Egan. “He is accused of almost everything that’s bad, and some day there will be trouble in this neighborhood. He is under indictment for shooting ducks contrary to law, but he says he will get up the biggest kind of a fight before he will be arrested, and he means every word of it.”

“If that yawl of yours scares just one more flock of ducks for me, she will never scare another,” continued the man in the sink-boat. “You have done about damage enough on this bay by taking the bread out of poor men’s mouths, and it is high time you were larnt better manners.”

Egan, who did not act as though he had either seen or heard the occupant of the sink-boat, kept the Sallie away a point or two, so as to clear the outer edge of the decoys, and ran on down the bay until he came opposite to a small board cabin that stood on the shore in the midst of a little grove; then he threw the yacht up into the wind and called out: “O Eph!” whereupon an aged negro, who was sitting on a bench beside the open door, arose and hobbled down to the beach, bowing and pulling at his almost brimless hat as he came.

“That’s old Eph, the terrapin hunter,” observed Egan. “He makes anywhere from ten to forty dollars a week out of his ‘birds,’ as they are called, but, like the most of his race, he spends his money as fast as he gets it, and what will he do when the rheumatism gets a good grip on him and he has to quit work, I don’t know. I suppose he will have to fall back on father for support, because he belonged to our family before the war.”

“Terrapins are nothing more nor less than mud-turtles, I believe?” said Curtis, inquiringly.

Egan replied that that was just what they were—turtles that were caught in tide-water; and then he called out to the negro, who had by this time reached the water’s edge:

“I say, Eph, have you two or three diamond-backs to spare?”

“Ise allers got some for you, Marse Gus,” was Eph’s answer.

“All right. Come aboard and get this basket.”

The negro stepped into a canoe that lay on the beach close at hand, and a few strokes with the paddle brought him alongside the yacht. The basket containing their lunch was passed down to him with the request that he would have three diamond-backs, cooked in his best style, ready for them at one o’clock sharp. The negro promised compliance and shoved off for the shore, after exchanging a few complimentary remarks with Egan, who, it was plain, was a favorite of his, while the yacht filed away on her course.

“What is a diamond-back?” asked Don, as soon as they were fairly under way.

“It is a terrapin not less than seven inches in length, measuring along the under shell,” answered Egan. “They are better than the larger and coarser kinds, just as a two and a half pound yellow pike is better than one that weighs nine or ten pounds. They bring from twenty-five to thirty-six dollars a dozen, while the river turtles are worth only nine dollars; but the latter are extensively used by hotels and restaurants where they are served up as diamond-backs, just as red-heads are served up as canvas-backs. However, as both those species of ducks live on the same kind of food—wild celery—there is not so much difference between them as there is between the tide-water and river terrapin. Hallo! Hand me that glass a moment, Curtis.”

The boys looked around to discover what it was that had called forth this exclamation from the skipper, and all they could see was a neat little schooner standing up the bay. Egan leveled the glass at her for a second or two, and then handed it back to Curtis, saying:

“Just as I expected. Now look out for breakers.”

Curtis, in turn, took a look at the schooner and was surprised to see that she was manned by academy boys, to wit, Enoch Williams, Jones, and Lester Brigham. As the little vessels dashed by each other, moving swiftly in opposite directions, no sign of recognition was exchanged between the crews. They seldom spoke now.

Don and his brother had made commendable progress during their last year at school, and had both received well-earned promotions at the close of the examination. Don was now lieutenant-colonel of the academy battalion, and Bert was the ranking captain; while Lester and his two friends had not been able to win so much as a corporal’s chevrons. Of course this made them angry, and they were waiting for an opportunity to be revenged upon Don and Bert. How the latter could be blamed because Lester and his cronies had failed in their examination, it would have puzzled a sensible boy to determine. Probably Lester did not understand the matter himself; but there was one thing he did understand, and that was, that things were going altogether too smoothly with Don and Bert. It would have afforded him infinite pleasure if he could have been the means of getting them into some serious trouble. During the last school term he had watched them as closely as a cat ever watched a mouse, in the hope that he would see a chance to report them for some neglect of duty; but he had his trouble for his pains. As soldiers and students there was not the least fault to be found with them, and if it had not been for Enoch, Lester would have given up in despair. How his friend encouraged him we shall see presently.

“Those fellows will be up to some sort of mischief before we see the last of them,” observed Curtis, after he had taken a good look at the schooner.

“That is my opinion,” said Egan, “and I believe that Enoch has been up to something already. I don’t know it to be a fact, but still I am pretty certain that he is hail fellow well met with these big-gunners, and if he is, he will bear watching.”

“What is that long black streak out there on the water?” asked Bert, suddenly.

Egan looked in the direction indicated, and a moment later the Sallie came up into the wind, then filled away on the other tack and started back up the bay.

“That is a bed of ducks,” said the skipper. “I shouldn’t wonder if there were thousands in it. They are only a short distance from the foot of Powell’s Island, and it will be no trouble at all to toll them in so that we can get a shot at them.”

“Well,” said Bert, when Egan paused, “we should like to be told what tolling is.”

“I would rather show you than try to explain it to you,” was the reply. “The only way to find out is to see for yourself.”

The Sallie kept on up the bay until she came opposite to the cabin of the old terrapin hunter, who at once responded to Egan’s lusty hail.

“I want to borrow Bogus for a little while,” shouted the skipper. “And I say, Eph, bring out a lot of chips with you.”

The negro disappeared behind his cabin, and in a few minutes came back again, carrying his hat in his hands, and followed by a little yellow dog. The two got into the canoe, and presently both the dog and the hatful of chips were deposited on the yacht’s deck.

“There is a big bed of ducks off Powell’s Island, and we are going to shoot some of them,” said Egan. “So, perhaps, you had better postpone the cooking of those terrapin until about three o’clock. Be sure and have them ready then, for we shall be hungry.”

The old negro went ashore, leaving his dog and the pile of chips behind him; and the yacht came about and started down the bay again. She held straight for the head of the island, and, running into a little bay thickly lined with trees on both sides, was tied up to an abrupt bank where the water was deep enough to float her. Bogus seemed to know just what he was expected to do; for when the boys, having buckled on their cartridge-belts, shouldered their guns and stepped ashore, he took up his position at Egan’s heels, and stayed there until he was sent out to perform his allotted part in tolling the ducks.

The young wild fowlers, led by Egan, directed their course toward a sheltered cove on the other side of the island, and were presently crawling on their hands and knees through the calamus and dry marsh grass which formed a good cover almost to the water’s edge. The bay seemed to be full of ducks. None of the visitors, except Hopkins, had ever seen so many in one flock before, and they were greatly disappointed to discover that they were far beyond the reach of the heaviest gun in the party. Indeed, it would have required a good rifle to throw a ball into the midst of them, and the course they were following was taking them farther away from the island every moment.

“We shall get no ducks out of that flock,” said Don.

“Then it will be your fault,” replied Egan, confidently. “If you will do good work after I bring them within range, we will have canvas-backs for dinner to-morrow. Now, Bogus, let’s see how smart you are.”

Egan had brought the chips with him in a game-bag. As he spoke, he took one of them out and tossed it into the water, whereupon Bogus jumped to his feet and skipped in after it. He seized the chip, tossed it into the air, caught it when it descended, and played with it with as much apparent delight as a cat plays with a ball of yarn; the visitors watching his antics with the greatest surprise.

“You have read of the curiosity exhibited by the antelope of the Western plains—how hunters have been known to decoy them within gun-shot by simply waving a colored handkerchief above the grass, have you not?” said Egan, by way of explanation. “Well, the canvas-back has just as much curiosity, as you can see for yourselves.”

The boys, whose attention had been fully occupied by the extraordinary performances of the dog, now turned their eyes toward the flock, and were astonished as well as gratified to observe that a few of them had left the main body and were coming slowly toward the shore. Even at that distance one could see that they were attracted by, and interested in, the actions of the dog. Presently, other ducks came out of the bed and joined them; then a second and larger body appeared, and, what was very surprising to the visitors, they betrayed the greatest excitement. They would sit up in the water, sustaining themselves by the help of their wings, and then settle down and swim swiftly about, performing the most intricate maneuvres.

“Easy, boys,” whispered Egan, as Curtis raised his head to obtain a better view of the approaching flock. “If you want to get a shot, you must not show so much as an inch of the top of your hat. They’ve got sharp eyes; and that is what makes them so easy to toll. If they were not constantly on the watch, they would not have seen the dog.”

When Bogus grew tired of playing with the first chip Egan threw out to him, the boy tossed him another. The intelligent and well-trained animal did not act as though he saw the ducks at all; but it was evident that he knew they were coming, for the nearer they approached the shore the more energetically he played. He never uttered the faintest whimper, but kept silently to his work; and the ducks, growing bolder as their number increased, approached with more rapidity and confidence, showing by their actions the liveliest curiosity.

“Now watch them closely, and I will show you something else,” whispered Egan. As he spoke, he began throwing the chips first to the right and then to the left of his place of concealment, and as the dog ran from one to the other, the ducks turned also, closely following all his movements as if they feared that they might lose the most interesting part of the performance. When those in front thought they had come near enough, and showed a disposition to stop, their companions behind pushed them on, while the ducks in the rear came crowding through to inquire into the matter.

By this time the dog had an interested audience of at least five or six hundred ducks in front of him, and not more than seventy-five yards from the shore. They were coming nearer all the while, and, finally, Egan reached for his double-barrel; but, just at that moment, the whole immense flock arose as one duck, with a great roaring of wings and splashing of water, and flew swiftly down the bay.

“Which one of you fellows showed his head?” demanded Egan, laughing heartily at the expression of disappointment and chagrin he saw on the faces of every one of his companions. “The next time we try to toll a flock of canvas-backs, remember what I told you about their sharp eyes, and be careful to keep out of sight. Look at Bogus! He thinks he was to blame for it, and he expects a whipping.”

The boys glanced toward the beach, and there was the dog which had done his part of the work so faithfully, going through all sorts of antics, and saying, as plainly as a dumb brute could say it, that he was very sorry the flock had gone off without giving the young hunters a chance for a shot, and that, if it were his fault, he would be careful to do better next time. First, he would sit up and beg, and then he would lie down and hold up both his paws imploringly, as if he were trying to ward off the blows of a switch; but a friendly word from Egan dispelled all his fears, and made a happy, light-hearted dog of him again.

“You didn’t do it, old fellow,” said the boy, as Bogus came bounding to his side; “and I can’t think what did do it, unless one of these careless friends of mine—— Hold on! I take it all back. There’s the cause of the trouble,” added Egan, nodding his head toward the upper end of the bay.

The others looked in the direction indicated, and saw Enoch Williams’ schooner coming down under full sail. Whether or not her crew knew that Egan and his companions were trying to toll the ducks within gun-shot, was a question; but they knew it a moment after they hove in sight, for the young hunters arose from their places of concealment, and stood out in full view of the schooner, which ran down as far as the foot of the island, and then came about, and started back up the bay.

“That move seems to indicate that they knew we were here, and that they came down on purpose to frighten the ducks away,” said Hopkins, with no little indignation in his tones.

“What else could you expect of such fellows as they are?” demanded Egan. “Never mind. There is more than one flock of canvas-backs on the bay, and they can’t drive them all away from us, no matter how hard they try. Now, we will take a short sail, and then we will run back to Eph’s, and get our terrapin.”

As it happened, Hopkins and Egan were both mistaken in their opinions regarding the object the schooner’s company had in view when they followed the Sallie down to Powell’s Island. Enoch and Jones had an idea in their heads, but they did not know that Egan and his friends were after the ducks until they saw them rise from their hiding-places. They were acting as volunteer spies upon the movements of Egan and his guests, and if we step aboard the schooner, and listen to some of the conversation that took place between Enoch and his two companions, we may be able to understand why they did it.

It will be remembered that Egan and his guests had got into the way of spending a portion of their vacations at one another’s homes, the first being spent in Mississippi. When Lester Brigham saw how they enjoyed themselves at Don Gordon’s Shooting box, he proposed to his friends, Enoch and Jones, that they should pass their vacations in the same way; and so it came about that while Egan, Hopkins, and Don and Bert Gordon were hunting and fishing with Curtis in the wilds of Maine, Lester’s Maryland friends were visiting with him at his home near Rochdale. It was not accident that had brought them all together in Maryland during this particular vacation. Lester had come there with a fully developed plan in his head, and Enoch and Jones were ready and eager to help him carry it out. Lester and Jones had been at Enoch’s home two weeks, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Egan’s guests, who, as we have said, were sojourning with Hopkins, enjoying themselves in shooting quails and snipes. On the morning of which we write they went out for a sail on the bay before breakfast, and it was while they were on their way home that their eyes were gladdened by the sight of the Sallie under sail.

“There they are at last!” exclaimed Enoch, who was the first to discover Egan’s boat as she moved gracefully away from her anchorage. He was standing at the helm of his schooner, the Firefly, and Lester and Jones were sitting near him in the cock-pit.

“They? Who?” inquired the former, who, for a wonder, happened to be thinking about something besides his contemplated revenge on the boys who had unintentionally excited his jealousy.

“Why, your particular friends, the Gordon boys.”

“Good!” exclaimed Lester. “I wonder if they are all there.”

“If you will run down and get the spy-glass you can soon find out,” was the reply.

The glass was brought, passed rapidly from hand to hand, and then the three plotters looked at one another while a smile of triumph lighted up their faces. They saw the Sallie frighten away the ducks that were about to swing to the decoys that were anchored around the sink-boat, and Enoch and Jones were so delighted when they saw the occupant of the boat rise up and flourish his fists in the air, that they could scarcely refrain from shouting.

“They have got themselves into trouble already,” said Enoch, as he brought the glass to bear upon the angry gunner. “That man in the sink-boat is Amos Barr. They have made him mad by scaring away his ducks, and I am glad of it, for he is one of the most vindictive men on the bay.”

We have already told how the two yachts passed each other without any exchange of courtesies between the crews. The Firefly ran between the decoys and the shore and was thrown up into the wind, so that her skipper could talk to the man in the sink-boat.

“Good morning, Mr. Barr,” said Enoch, pleasantly. “Egan came along just at the wrong time, didn’t he?”

“He is always around when he ain’t wanted, and I told him so,” was the gruff response.

“Do you believe it is all unintentional on his part?” asked Jones, in a significant tone. “Don’t you think that he does it on purpose—that he is just snooping around to see what he can find that is worth looking at?”

“I know it,” answered Barr, shaking his clenched hand at the rapidly receding cutter. “When he told that detective that I was a duck-shooter, and that I and my partners had a big gun hid somewhere about the bay, didn’t he do it a purpose? Of course he did. He wanted to get me into trouble; but he wasn’t by no means as smart as he thought he was. We had more’n one big gun, me and my partners did, and—by the way, did you know that we had got our best gun back?”

“No!” replied Enoch, who was surprised to hear it.

“Well, we’ve got it safe and sound, and if one of them detectives ever gets a chance to put an ugly hand on it again, I’m a Dutchman. Simpson, he—but I don’t reckon I had best say any more,” said Barr, with a hasty, suspicious glance at Lester.

“O, you need not be afraid of my friend Brigham,” exclaimed Enoch. “He is true blue, and he hates Egan and all his crowd as cordially as Jones and I do. What about Simpson?”

“Mebbe I will tell you all about it some other time,” answered Barr, cautiously. “’Tain’t best to say too much to nobody these times.”

“I know that. Those ‘gentlemen sportsmen’ (Enoch sneered as he uttered the words), who live up north, and rent some of our shooting-points, are bound to break up your business if they can.”

“And how would they feel if we-uns should go up where they live, and set about breaking up their business—should try to take the bread out of the mouths of their children?” exclaimed Barr, in savage tones. “The birds we shoot bring we-uns in our grub and clothes. Being wild, they don’t belong to nobody; but they belong to we-uns who live here, more’n they do to folks who don’t live here, and we have a right to get ’em in any way we can. Them fellers up north can’t break up our business, for we won’t let ’em; an’ as for the folks who live round here and tries to help ’em do it—”

“Fellows like Gus Egan, for instance,” interrupted Enoch.

“Yes, he is one of the worst in the lot of the mean fellers that won’t let us shoot the ducks because they want to shoot them theirselves,” assented Barr. “As for him, and others like him, that I could call by name if I wanted to, they are getting theirselves deeper and deeper into a furse every day. Something’s going to happen if them detectives comes down here this season. You hear me speaking to you?”

As Barr said this, he played with the lock of his heavy duck-gun, and looked very fierce indeed.

CHAPTER III.
BARR’S BIG GUN.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” said Jones, after a few minutes’ pause. “I hold as you do, Mr. Barr—that the wild fowl which come into this bay are the property of any one who can bring them to bag; and that men who live hundreds of miles away, who come here only once a year, and for a few days at a time, are taking a good deal upon themselves when they presume to tell us how these wild birds shall be killed. Those ‘gentlemen sportsmen,’ as Enoch calls them, have no right to make laws for my government, and I shall pay no attention to them.”

“No more will I,” said Barr, emphatically. “But I bet you I will pay some attention to the fellers about here who are mean enough to side with them and the detectives.”

“Was that you shooting last night?” asked Enoch, suddenly.

“I didn’t hear no shooting last night,” answered Barr, with another sidelong glance at Lester.

“You have grown very suspicious since I saw you last,” said Enoch, with some impatience in his tones. “But I tell you that you need not be afraid to trust me or any one whom I endorse. We all heard a big gun shortly after midnight, and I’ll bet my schooner against your sink-boat, that if I were to look along the shores of Powell’s Island, I could find the gun.”

Barr grinned, but made no reply.

“When are you going out again?” continued Enoch.

“Well, that depends,” said the gunner, hesitatingly. “If I see nothing suspicious, I may go out the fore part of next week.”

“When you go, remember that we three want to go with you,” added Enoch. “This fellow”—jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards Lester Brigham—“is my chum and Jones’s. He lives way down in Mississippi, and has never seen a big gun. We passed a portion of our last vacation at his father’s house, and as Lester took pains to show us every thing of interest there was to be seen in that part of the country, we desire to reciprocate his kindness. You will let us know when you are going out, won’t you? Hallo! What is the Sallie doing back here? I thought she went on down the bay.”

So she did; but when Bert discovered that immense bed of canvas-backs off Powell’s island, the skipper ran back to old Eph’s cabin after his dog to entice the wild fowl within range. When Enoch saw her, she was just rounding to in readiness to start down the bay again. He and the rest watched her until she disappeared in the cove at the head of the island, and then to quote from Lester Brigham, Barr swore until every thing around him turned blue.

“Aha!” cried Enoch, and there was a triumphant ring in his voice. “Didn’t I say that that big gun we heard last night was somewhere around the island? If you think I can be of any service to you, I will run down there and keep an eye on them. Of course they don’t know that the gun is there, but if you go down, they will suspect it.”

“All right,” said Barr, in tones that were husky with passion. “Go on, and I will do you a friendly act the first chance I get.”

“Will you let us go out with you the next time you use the big gun?” inquired Enoch, as he put the helm down and motioned to Jones to haul in a little on the jib sheets.

“Yes, I will; honor bright,” answered Barr, eagerly. “Say, Enoch, the gun is hid in the bushes on the banks of that little cove on the other side of the island. You just hang around and see whether or not they stumble on to it, and if they do, let me know it at once. I will put it in a safer place before I go home to-night. I see one of my partners down there in his canoe. I wish you would hail him as you go by and tell him to come up here. I may need him.”

The Firefly ran up the bay until she cleared the decoys, and then rounding to, filled away for Powell’s Island. Her captain seemed to be in a very jovial mood.

“Didn’t we promise that we would help you square yards with those fellows?” said he, addressing himself to Lester. “I wouldn’t like to be in their boots if they find that gun; would you, Jones?”

“No, indeed,” was the quick reply. “Barr is just on the point of boiling over already, and he won’t stand much more interference with his business.”

“What do you think he would do to Egan if he and his crowd should find that big gun and take possession of it?” asked Lester.

“O, Egan would not dare do that,” answered Jones. “He has no more right to touch that big gun than he has to take charge of this schooner. The most he could do would be to tell an officer where the gun was hidden, and if he did that, Barr would improve the very first opportunity he got to destroy some property for him or his father.”

“But how would that help me square yards with Don and Bert?” inquired Lester. “I don’t like Egan, because he is Don’s friend; but still I don’t care to see him injured.”

“Well, I do,” said Enoch, spitefully. “I haven’t forgotten how squarely he went back on me during my first day at the academy. There I was, a stranger in a strange place, and he wouldn’t introduce me to a single student; and when he walked off toward the gate with some of his chums, he told me to stay behind because he did not want me along. Do you think I shall ever forget that? Not much.”

“It seems that Barr has got his big gun back again,” said Jones. “I mean the one the detectives found on information furnished them by Gus Egan.”

“I am not at all surprised to hear it,” replied Enoch. “You see,” he added, turning to Lester, “this man Simpson, of whom Barr spoke, is a local detective, who has long been suspected of being in sympathy with the big-gunners; and you know Barr hinted that it was through him that he got his big gun back. The detectives often play into one another’s hands, and I believe that for a hundred dollars Simpson could be bribed to do almost anything. Look there, Brigham! Did you ever see such a sight before?”

Up to this time the Firefly had been kept behind the island, so that her approach would not be detected by the boys whom Enoch intended to watch; but now she was obliged to stand out into the bay, and, as she rounded the headland, Enoch caught sight of the flock of canvas-backs which old Eph’s dog was tolling in toward the beach.

“No, I never saw so many ducks in one flock before,” replied Lester, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his surprise. “Why, Diamond Lake would hardly hold them. Don’t those look like heads over there in the grass?” he added, directing Enoch’s attention toward the cove where the young wild fowlers were concealed.

“They are heads,” said Jones, after he had taken a look at the objects through the spy-glass. “They were tolling that flock, and we came up just in time to spoil their sport for them.”

“If I could have my way, they would never have the pleasure of shooting a wild duck or anything else as long as they live,” snapped Lester.

“We have found them,” said Enoch. “Now we will sail around, far enough from the shore to avoid arousing their suspicions, and keep an eye on their movements through the glass. Barr’s big gun is hidden somewhere near that cove, you know.”

Enoch kept on down the bay without one word of apology to the boys on shore for frightening away the ducks, while Jones, at his suggestion, settled himself down on a cushion in the cock-pit to observe and report upon the actions of Egan and his party. The latter, all unconscious of the fact that they were being closely watched, strolled leisurely along the shore of the cove in the hope of picking up a few brace of snipes for their next morning’s breakfast; and although they did not find the game for which they were looking, they found something else for which they were not looking. Jones, through the glass, saw them stop all on a sudden, and bend down until their heads disappeared from view. They were out of sight for a long time, and when they again arose to an upright position, three of them were tugging and lifting at something which seemed to be about as heavy as they could manage with their united strength. When Jones saw that, he uttered a loud ejaculation of astonishment.

“Enoch,” he exclaimed, “give me the tiller and you take the glass—quick. Those fellows have found it, or else I am very much mistaken.”

Enoch seized the glass, and one look was all that was needed to show him that the sharp-eyed young hunters had unearthed the poacher’s hidden treasure.

“It is Barr’s big gun, sure enough,” said he. “They are trying to stand it up on end so that they can take a good look at it.”

“One would think, from the way you talk, that you were glad of it,” observed Lester.

“And so I am,” answered Enoch, gleefully, as he passed the glass over to Lester and resumed his place at the tiller. “Do you not see that Barr will be awful mad when we tell him of it, and that he will do something to pay Egan for snooping around in this way? Now we will run up to his sink-boat and see what he is going to do about it.”

“By gracious, Enoch!” exclaimed Jones, suddenly. “Just look at that, will you?”

“Whew!” whistled the skipper. “It is all up with the big gun now. Barr has seen it for the last time.”

Lester looked down the bay in the direction in which his two companions were gazing, but could discover nothing to call forth that long-drawn whistle of surprise from Enoch. All he could see were a few oyster and pleasure boats, and a neat little steamer, which was coming up with a heavy bone in her teeth.

“That is a police-boat,” explained Enoch, noticing the inquiring look on Lester’s face. “They run around night and day searching for illegal duck-shooters and oyster-dredgers. What is the matter now, Jones?” he added, as his companion uttered another exclamation of surprise.

Jones did not reply until he had snatched the glass from Lester’s hand and taken a long look at the boys on shore; then he said slowly:

“Egan is signaling to the police-boat to come in and get the gun, as sure as I’m a foot high.”

“No!” cried Enoch, who thought the news too good to be true. He wanted Egan and his friends to do all the mischief they could, so that he would have an exasperating report to make to Barr when he went back to the sink-boat.

“But I say he is,” insisted Jones. “I can see him waving his hat. There! do you believe it now?” he continued, as the steamer gave one short, quick toot on her whistle to show that Egan’s signal was seen and understood.

Yes, Enoch believed it now; especially, when he saw the police-boat turn her bow toward the cove. She ran as close to the shore as the depth of the water would permit, then rang her stopping bell, and presently Jones announced that the crew were putting one of the small boats into the water.

“I tell you Barr has seen that big gun for the last time,” repeated Enoch. “He may be able to bribe a private detective; but the State authorities, as a general thing, don’t do business that way. Won’t Barr be hopping when he finds it out? We can’t do any thing to save the gun, and neither can he; so we might as well run down there and look on.”

The Firefly came about and bore down toward the cove, running in between the steamer and the shore so that her crew could make a note of every thing that was done by the police, and perhaps overhear some of the conversation that took place between them and the young wild fowlers; but in this last hope they were disappointed. More than that, they had the satisfaction of discovering that they were suspected of something themselves. For, when one of the officers who went off in the small boat began talking in rather a loud voice, Egan said a word or two to him in a low tone; whereupon the officers faced about, and stared so fixedly at the schooner’s crew, that the latter began to feel uneasy. But they saw the big gun put into the boat, and then the Firefly filled away and stood up the bay again.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Lester, when they were fairly under way; “I never saw a gun like that before. How long is it, and how much do you suppose it weighs?”

“It is ten feet long, and weighs a hundred and sixty pounds,” snarled Enoch, who was fully as angry as he expected Barr to be when he heard the report they had to make. “Say, Jones, did you notice how quickly those officers stopped talking, and how hard they looked at us when Egan spoke to them?”

“I did,” was the reply; “and it struck me at once that he was telling them something that he would not dare say to our faces.”

“That was, and still is, my opinion,” continued Enoch. “Now, the only way we can get even with him for that is to make out as bad a case against him as we can when we report to Barr.”

“Why can’t you take his punishment into your own hands?” inquired Lester. “You can do as much damage as you please, and unless you are surprised and caught in the act, it will all be laid to Barr’s account.”

“I say,” exclaimed Enoch, gazing admiringly at Lester, “your head is level yet, isn’t it? That is a proposition worth thinking and talking about at some future time. Now, then, here we are.”

The Firefly was by this time almost within hailing distance of the sink-boat. She had two occupants now, for the “partner” of whom Barr had spoken, and who had been hailed by Enoch and sent up to the sink-boat, had pushed his canoe through the decoys, and was talking earnestly with his companion in guilt, while waiting for the captain of the schooner to come back and make his report.

“Now, then,” exclaimed Barr, as soon as he could make himself heard, “is your news good or bad?”

“Bad enough,” was Enoch’s reply. “The Magpie sent a boat ashore and gobbled up that big gun of yours.”

The “partner” looked incredulous, but Barr saw no reason to doubt the truth of the report. He jumped to his feet with so sudden and strong an impulse that he came within a hair’s breadth of losing his balance and going headlong out of the sink-boat; and when he had recovered his perpendicular, he found relief for his feelings in a volley of the heaviest kind of oaths. If swearwords could have sunk the Magpie (that was the name of the police-boat), the officers who captured his big gun never would have seen Baltimore again.

“You needn’t bear down so heavy on the police,” said Enoch, as soon as he saw a chance to crowd a word in edgewise, “for they would not have known that the big gun was there, if it had not been for that meddlesome fellow who took it upon himself to play the spy upon your actions last season.”

“You mean Gus Egan?” said Barr, inquiringly.

“He is the very chap,” replied Enoch. “We found him and his party, which is made up of boys as mean as he is, in the cove, trying to toll in a flock of ducks with old Eph’s dog; but that was only a blind. When we came up and frightened the ducks away, they went down the beach and found the gun as easy as falling off a log. Just then the police-boat came up and they signaled to her, and she went in and brought away the gun.”

Upon hearing this, Barr went off into another paroxysm of rage, flourishing his fists in the air and dancing about in the sink-boat, while the “partner” clung to the sides to keep from being thrown out by his companion’s wild antics, and swore softly to himself.

“We ran alongside the police-boat, thinking that we might hear something that would be of use to us, but Egan put the officers on their guard, talking to them in a tone so low that we could not hear what he said,” chimed in Jones. “We owe him one for that.”

“I am afraid you will never get any more ducks with that gun,” said Enoch, consolingly.

“I know I never shall,” growled Barr, who, having worked off a little of his rage, was now seated quietly on the bottom of the sink-boat. “Let’s pick up the decoys, Pete. I don’t feel like doing any more shooting to-day.”

“I shouldn’t think he would,” said Enoch, in a low tone. “If I were in his place I should feel much more like hunting up that Gus Egan and giving him a good thrashing.” Then raising his voice, he continued: “You won’t forget your promise, will you, Mr. Barr? You will let us know when you are ready to make another night excursion, won’t you?”

But Barr was too angry, or too busy with his decoys to reply. Enoch did not dare press the matter just then, for fear of defeating the object he had in view; and as he could not think of anything that he cared to add to his report, he bade the big-gunners good-by, and filed away for home. On the way the Firefly passed Mr. Egan’s house, and Jones pointed out to Lester the berth the Sallie always occupied when she was not in use. Lester saw at a glance that it was a lonely and retired spot, and so far from the dwelling that a tramp or anybody else who wanted to go down the bay, and who thought it easier to ride than to walk, could steal Egan’s yacht, or his father’s oyster-boat, with little fear of detection.

“Well, then, suppose we try it to-night,” said Enoch, when Lester had given utterance to the thoughts that were passing through his mind. “Suppose we steal the cutter?”

“What shall we do with her after we get her?” inquired Jones.

“We’ll not do anything with her,” answered Enoch, glancing up at the sky. “We will let the elements take care of her. There is wind in those clouds, and plenty of it, too. It will be the easiest thing in the world to come down here in a small boat after dark and slip the chain, and I’ll bet there won’t be much left of the Sallie by the time morning comes.”

Jones was prompt to say that he would gladly lend a hand, but Lester, although he had often talked very glibly about doing something of this kind, in order to be revenged upon Egan for ignoring him and paying so much attention to Don and Bert Gordon, did not seem to be very enthusiastic. He felt a good deal as he did on the night he and the rest of the deserters from the academy ran away in the Sylph. It was easy enough to sit down and talk about such things, but when the time for action arrived, Lester was the first one to stand back and let somebody else do the work and take all the chances of detection and punishment.

“What do you say, Brigham?” demanded Enoch, after a little pause. “Are you in for it?”

“O, yes; of course; certainly,” answered Lester, with great apparent earnestness. “You can count on me every time. Didn’t I help you rescue those people from the Mystery at the time she was wrecked? Well, I will help you turn Egan’s cutter adrift this very night. I would like much to see his face, and hear what he will have to say when he comes out in the morning and finds his boat gone.”

“But you would not like to be within reach of his arm, if he thought you had anything to do with helping that boat to get adrift, would you?” asked Jones. “I know I wouldn’t, for a fellow who can knock down three or four men and boys, as Egan did during that fight with the rioters at Hamilton Creek bridge, is a good fellow to keep out of the way of.”

Enoch and Lester had no reply to make to these words of praise, bestowed upon the boy they so cordially hated; but they told themselves, as they had often done before, that they would give almost anything they possessed if they had showed a little more pluck during those troublous times.

The Firefly ran on to her moorings, and her captain proceeded to make everything snug in anticipation of the storm he had predicted. They went ashore in the canoe which they had left tied to the anchor buoy when they started out in the morning, and sat down to their late breakfast with appetites that enabled them to do full justice to it. They passed a few hours in roaming about the fields with their guns in their hands, popping away at everything in the shape of a bird that showed itself, and when the wind came up, driving before it blinding sheets of rain and sleet, they retreated to Enoch’s room, where they passed the time in reading and talking and watching the angry white-caps on the bay.

Although the force of the gale decreased when the sun went down, the white-caps still rolled wildly; but that did not in the least dampen the ardor of Enoch and his friend Jones, who were fully resolved that Gus Egan and his guests should not see any more pleasure in cruising about in the Sallie, if it were in their power to prevent it. They could scarcely restrain their impatience, so slowly did the hours drag themselves along; but darkness came at last, and Enoch gave the signal for action by picking up his hat and starting for the door.

“We could not have chosen a better night for the work,” said he, holding fast to his hat, which the wind seemed determined to tear from his head, in spite of all his efforts to keep it on. “Just let this breeze get a good grip on the Sallie, and she is a gone cutter. Gus thought he was seeing lots of fun to-day while he was helping those officers steal Barr’s gun, and now he will learn, by experience, how the loss of property affects a fellow.”

“But there is this difference,” added Jones, turning his back to the wind so that he could catch his breath. “Barr was in a measure dependent upon that big gun for his living, while Egan is dependent upon his yacht for nothing but his pleasure-rides. He is able to buy another boat if he loses this one, but poor Barr can’t replace that gun.”

“I am glad he’s got another that the officers know nothing about,” replied Enoch, as he unlocked the boat-house, and hung the lighted lantern he had brought with him upon a convenient hook. “Now catch hold, all of us, and shove her in.”

Lester Brigham, whose experience on the day he so rashly volunteered to assist in rescuing the crew of the Mystery, had made him very much afraid of rough water, was greatly relieved to find that the craft, in which Enoch purposed braving the white-caps, was not a canoe, but a staunch row-boat, with plenty of sheer, and roomy enough to hold ten or a dozen men. Being mounted on rollers she was easily managed, in spite of her size and weight. Lester assisted in putting her in the water, and in five minutes more she was being rowed rapidly toward the Sallie’s anchorage.

As they passed Mr. Egan’s residence Enoch took note of the fact that there was a bright light in the ex-sergeant’s room. He and his guests were doubtless having a “high old time” in there, and Enoch told himself that Gus had deliberately insulted him by not asking him and his guests over to help them enjoy it.

“Every body likes that boy—every body except Barr and his crowd of loafers and ruffians—and no one seems to care a cent for me,” thought Enoch, with no little bitterness in his heart. “I don’t believe that even those low-down fellows, the big-gunners, would countenance me, if it were not for the fact that I have showed that I can be of use to them. They are a pretty gang for a gentleman like myself to associate with, I must say! Well, the fault lies at Egan’s door, and he is going to suffer for it this very night.”

Guided by Enoch, who pulled the bow-oar, and acted as look-out and coxswain at the same time, the row-boat dashed past Mr. Egan’s oyster-sloop, and drew up alongside the Sallie. There were no signs of life on board either of the little vessels. Jones fastened into the fore-chains as soon as he could reach them with his boat-hook, and Enoch, after carefully laying down his oar, placed his hands on the rail, and sprang lightly to the yacht’s deck. Groping his way to the windlass he found, to his gratification, that Egan had been accommodating enough to leave the anchor-chain in such shape that it could be slipped in an instant. Seizing the rope with both hands he was about to lay out all his strength upon it in one vigorous jerk, which would have released the chain, and allowed it to run overboard through the hawse-hole, thus giving the yawl up to the mercy of the elements, when suddenly there was a glare of light and a deafening report on the deck of the oyster-boat, not more than a dozen yards away, and a bullet whistled through the air in close proximity to the boy’s head. This was followed by a chorus of barks and growls that made Enoch’s blood run cold, and a voice he had often heard before shouted at him through the darkness:

“You-uns mighty smart ober da’—you is so; but ole Sam wide awake, an’ he done seed ye when ye go pas’. Look out da’; Ise gettin’ ready to shoot agin, an’ the nex’ bullet come closter, I tell ye.”

Enoch waited to hear no more. He made a headlong rush for the side, and tumbled into his boat, which was at once pushed off into the darkness by its frightened crew. The Sallie was not destined to be given up to the tender mercies of the elements that night.

CHAPTER IV.
AT SCHOOL AGAIN.

The last time we saw Don and Bert Gordon, they had just returned to Mississippi after having spent a few weeks with their friend Curtis in his far northern home. They had come back with more honors as students, soldiers and hunters than they had ever hoped to win. Eight months’ hard study, combined with strict attention to their duties, had made Don major of the academy battalion and Bert first lieutenant of his company. The latter had barely escaped mutilation from the teeth and claws of a wounded lucivee, while Don had smelled powder, heard the whistle of bullets, seen a murderous-looking bowie-knife flourished before his eyes by a ruffian who tried his best to use it on his person, and those who were with him during that trying ordeal declared, as one boy, that he never flinched. More than that, he had performed a feat during his sojourn in Maine of which any veteran hunter would have been proud to boast. He had killed a full-grown moose, whose antlers had been given an honored place in his mother’s dining-room.

“I don’t believe Don shot that moose himself,” said Lester Brigham, when he heard of it. “Some old hunter shot it for him, and he comes home and palms it off as a trophy of his own skill with the rifle. He tried hard to get up a reputation on the strength of that fight with the rioters, which really did not amount to any thing; but after Williams and I risked our lives to save the crew of the Mystery, Don and his crowd had not another word to say. There was danger in that undertaking, I beg you to remember, and if Don and his brother had been the heroes of it, they never would leave off talking about it.”

Lester was standing in the Rochdale post-office waiting for his mail when he said this, and Enoch Williams and Jones were with him. Around them was a crowd of boys, who had so often heard them tell of the wonderful exploits they had performed during their runaway expedition, that they were tired of listening to them. Knowing these three fellows as well as we do, it is hardly necessary to say that, while magnifying their own achievements, they did not scruple to speak in the most contemptuous terms of what Don Gordon had done, and to declare, in so many words, that his promotion and Bert’s was owing entirely to favoritism. They wore their uniforms on all occasions, carried themselves very stiffly when they walked, and tried in every way to impress the Rochdale boys with a sense of their importance. They succeeded with some, while others, who were civil enough to their faces, laughed at them behind their backs. The Mississippi boys were not lacking in common sense if they did live in the country. Williams and Jones were getting ready to go home now, their preparations being somewhat hastened by the arrival of Don and his brother, whom, for reasons of their own, they did not care to meet.

“We heard down here that that fight with the rioters was a pretty severe one,” observed Fred Packard.

“We don’t doubt it,” answered Jones. “It is very natural for some people to praise themselves when there is no one to do it for them. I would be perfectly willing to go through one just like it, and take my chances.”

“So would I,” exclaimed Enoch.

“Here too,” chimed in Lester, puffing out his cheeks and looking very brave and warlike indeed. “And I wouldn’t brag about it after I got home, either.”

“Well, then, why did you not go to Hamilton with Don and the rest?” inquired Fred.

“Because I couldn’t. The third company went, and I belonged to the fourth. I volunteered to go, and so did my two friends here, but the superintendent has his favorites among the students, and of course they had to go, no matter if they were the biggest cowards in the academy.”

“I conclude that you were just spoiling for a fight,” said Joe Packard, with a smile that was highly exasperating to Lester and his two friends. “If that was the case, what made you pull your head under the bed-clothes and pretend that you were ill when the bugle sounded that false alarm?”

“I didn’t do any thing of the kind; did I, boys?” cried Lester, appealing to his guests who were prompt to sustain him in his denial of the humiliating charge. “If Don Gordon told you any story of that sort, he is a mean, sneaking——”

“Hold on!” interrupted Fred. “Don is a friend of mine, and somehow I can’t bear to hear him abused. Besides——”

Here Fred stopped and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the open door. The boys looked, and saw Don and Bert in the act of hitching their ponies to a tree on the opposite side of the road. They were dressed in citizens’ clothes, and although they did not walk with the regulation step, nor turn square corners, any one could see at a glance that they had been under military training, and that they had paid some attention to it.

Lester took just one look at them, and then leaned his elbow on the show-case and rested his head on his hand. He had evidently forgotten what he was going to say about Don.

“Another thing, Gordon has never said a word to my brother or me about you since he came home,” continued Fred. “He isn’t that sort. He is much too manly to try to build himself up by pulling others down, and that is more than I can say for some lads with whom I happen to be acquainted.”

“Then who told you that ridiculous tale about me?” demanded Lester, wincing a little under the covert rebuke contained in Fred’s last words.

“Our information came from a very reliable source,” was the rather unsatisfactory reply. “I know we live a good many miles from Bridgeport; but we manage to keep pretty well posted in some things that happen there.”

“His uncle told him all about it,” said Enoch, turning his back toward Fred, and speaking in a low voice. “No one else could have done it, if Don or Bert didn’t.”

The “uncle” referred to was the Mr. Packard who owned the Sylph—the yacht in which Enoch and his band of deserters made their runaway voyage. He was an old man with all a boy’s love of fun. He was very fond of his nephews, Fred and Joe, with whom he corresponded regularly, and it is reasonable to suppose that if anything amusing or exciting happened at the academy, he did not neglect to speak of it in his letters.

“And we took Mr. Packard’s relatives off the Mystery and saved them from going to the bottom of the bay with her!” exclaimed Lester, in deep disgust.

“But that was after the fight, you know,” whispered Enoch. “He wouldn’t say anything against our courage now, I’ll bet you.”

“No matter. He has talked about us, and told things that his good sense, if he had any, ought to have led him to conceal, and I’ll never go near his house again. I think Fred and Joe might treat us with a little more respect after what we did for their relatives when the Mystery was wrecked.”

As it is possible the reader may think so too, we hasten to assure him that it was not Fred’s fault nor Joe’s that they could not be friends with Lester and Enoch. These two had a faculty of driving every decent boy away from them. When they arrived in Rochdale, Fred and Joe lost no time in calling upon them, to tell them how grateful they were for what they had done for their friends when their lives were in peril, but Lester showed them very plainly, by his actions, that he did not thank them for the visit. They wouldn’t have anything to do with him when he was plain Lester Brigham, he said; but now that he was Lester Brigham the hero, they were anxious to cultivate his acquaintance. That was something to which he could not consent; and so he, and Enoch and Jones following his example, snubbed Fred and Joe most royally as often as the opportunity was presented. If the high-spirited Packard boys grew tired of such treatment after a while, and showed Lester and his boastful guests up in their true colors, can anybody blame them?

“Here comes Don,” said Jones, in a suppressed voice. “Don’t salute him.”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Lester, who seemed to grow angry at the mere mention of such a thing. “We are not at the academy now, and we are just as good as he is.”

“Hallo, major!” cried all the Rochdale boys, as Don and his brother came into the store. “Glad to see you back safe and sound, and none the worse for your fight with the rioters. You don’t act a bit stuck up if you are a big officer.”

“Just listen to ’em!” whispered Lester, who could not conceal his indignation. “The world is full of toadies.”

“And always will be,” answered Jones, who was equally angry and disgusted. “Whenever some fortunate accident raises a chap a round or two, you will always find plenty who are willing to bow to him.”

“Well, major,” said Fred Packard, “I hear that—”

“O, for goodness sake, drop that,” interrupted Don. “Drop it, I say, or I’ll not talk to you. I am at home now, and I want to forget school and every thing connected with it until the time comes to go back.”

Don’s friends knew very well that he cared nothing for his military title, except in so far as it marked his standing at the academy, and that was the reason they addressed him by it—simply to bother him. They gathered in a group about him and Bert, and Lester and his two friends being left to themselves, secured their mail as soon as the window was opened, and left the post-office, looking straight before them as they passed out at the door, and giving the brothers no chance to salute them, even if it had been their place to do so.

“Now, Don,” said one of the boys, who had not an opportunity to speak to him before, “is it true that Lester and Williams took the crew off Mr. Packard’s yacht at the risk of their own lives?”

“It is,” answered Don, readily. “Bert and I were there and saw it all. It was a brave act, and everybody who knows the circumstances says so.”

“But still Lester pulled the quilts over his head and feigned illness when the bugle sounded; and Jones, who belonged to your company, was left behind because he hid in one of the coal-bins,” said Joe Packard.

As Don could not deny this, he said nothing about it. He took his mail as soon as he could get it, and then he and Bert mounted their ponies and rode homeward, accompanied by the Packard boys.

The two brothers spent this vacation in much the same way they spent the first one after their northern friends, Hopkins, Curtis, and Egan had gone home. Bert studied hard in the hope of being able to exchange his single bar for a captain’s shoulder-strap at the next examination, but Don never looked into the book. He had earned a long rest, and had come home to enjoy it in his own way. He rode and hunted to his heart’s content, swung Indian clubs, punched the sand-bag with heavy dumb-bells, and ran a mile every pleasant day at the top of his speed with a view of lowering the academy record during the next encampment. When the time came to go back he was ready, and his mother saw him depart without any misgivings. Don had showed her that he could behave himself, if he set about it in dead earnest, and now that he had tried it for a whole year, and made many friends and won his promotion by it, she was firm in her belief that he was well started on the right road at last. Don thought so too, but he did not for a moment relax his vigilance. He could not afford to if he were going to make Egan’s prediction come out true, and wear the lieutenant-colonel’s shoulder-straps during his last year at the academy. If he desired to use the authority and enjoy the privileges those shoulder-straps would give him, it was necessary that he should win them at the very next examination.

A few days before they left Rochdale, Don and Bert rode over to Lester Brigham’s to see if he would be ready to start when they did—not because they wanted him for traveling companion, but because they thought it would be a friendly thing for them to do; but Lester received them in so freezing a manner, and showed so plainly that he did not care for their company, that they left him to himself and set out for Bridgeport alone.

“I don’t want anything to do with them or the crowd they run with,” soliloquized Lester, as he saw them ride away. “I shall have friends enough at the academy without them. Enoch said he knew of two or three good fellows, who had about half made up their minds to sign the muster-roll this year, and if he brings them with him, they may be able to think up some way in which we can enjoy ourselves. We have already tried the only plan I could think of, and I shouldn’t have thought of that if it had not been for Huggins.”

Lester reached Bridgeport without any mishap, and when he stepped out of the carriage that took him and his trunk from the railroad depot to the academy, he found Williams and Jones waiting for him. The “good fellows” were there also—three of them, and of course they were boys after Enoch’s own heart. They lived on Long Island, and Enoch went to school with them before his father moved down into Maryland. They had not come to the academy to learn, but because they wanted to take part in the sports and pastimes which fell to the lot of the students, and which Enoch had described in glowing colors; although he had never said a word concerning the long, tiresome hours of study and drill that came six days in the week as regularly as the deep tones of the big bell rang out from the cupola. They wanted the honor of belonging to the school, a portion of whose members had stood up so manfully in defense of law and order; but they never stopped to ask themselves how they would act, should they be called upon to perform a similar service.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Enoch, as he grasped Lester’s hand in both his own and shook it cordially, “and I have good cause for complaint already. That little snipe, Bert Gordon, has been detailed to assign the boys to their rooms (more favoritism right at the start, you see), and when I asked him if he would be kind enough to chum you on me, he replied he did not think it would be just the thing to do.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” demanded Lester, after he had shaken hands with Enoch’s three friends, who were introduced to him as Dale, Barry, and Morris.

“Because it suits His Royal Highness to keep you two apart,” said Jones. “He thinks you wouldn’t study anything but plans for mischief.”

“Is that any of his business?” cried Lester, who was very indignant. “He and Don throw on altogether too many airs. I wish we could think up some way to get those straps off his shoulders.”

“That is simply impossible,” said Enoch. “He will be the ranking captain next year, and Don will be lieutenant-colonel. You wait and see. They have succeeded in getting on the blind side of the teachers, and their promotion is a dead sure thing.”

“Couldn’t he be drawn into a scrape that would do the business for him?” asked Dale.

Lester and Jones both answered that he could not. Bert was one of the good little boys, and had never learned how to disobey any of the rules. There had been a time, they said, when his brother Don could be induced to join in anything that had fun and danger in it; but he was major of the battalion now, and besides, Egan and the fellows who belonged to that crowd had so much influence over him that it would be useless to approach him on the subject of “scrapes.”

“And dangerous as well,” chimed in Enoch. “He has an uncomfortable habit of telling the truth at all times and on all occasions, and if he is caught, he will own right up.”

“He did that very thing the year before I came here, and brought some jolly boys into serious trouble by it,” observed Lester.

“Humph!” exclaimed Dale, contemptuously. “I wouldn’t have any intercourse with such a milk-sop.”

“He’s no milk-sop, and there is no boy in school who dares call him that to his face, either,” said Jones, who, in his heart, admired Don Gordon, and earnestly wished that he was like him in some respects. “It is true that he has too much honor to lie himself out of a scrape, but he won’t go back on a friend.”

“I don’t see how you make that out,” snapped Lester, who never could bear to hear a civil word said about either of the Gordon boys.

“Why, when he was hauled up for allowing Clarence Duncan and Tom Fisher, and all the rest of the guard-runners to go by him one night when he was on duty, didn’t he come very near being sent down for refusing to give their names when he was ordered to do so?” demanded Jones.

“Some of you fellows make a great fuss about that,” said Lester, with a gesture of impatience. “One would think, by the way you harp on it, that Gordon is the only boy in the world who has the courage to stand by a school-mate. If he was so very anxious to keep the guard-runners out of trouble, why did he not say that no one went by him while he had charge of the floor? That’s what any decent boy would have done.”

“And that same decent boy would have found himself brought up with a round turn directly,” replied Jones, “for the superintendent knew right where to look to find every fellow who broke the rules that night. Don did the best that could have been done under the circumstances, for Duncan was bound to go down any way.”

While Lester and his friends were talking in this way, they were standing at the foot of the wide stone steps that led up to the front door of the academy; and it was not until their teeth began to chatter that they thought of going into the building to get out of reach of the keen, cutting wind which came over the frozen surface of the river. Gathering about the huge stove in the hall, they threw off their gloves and mufflers and looked about them. There was a large pile of trunks in one end of the hall, and Bert Gordon, assisted by one of the corporals, was trying his best to get rid of it; but fast as his four stalwart porters worked, the pile grew in size, for a train had just passed through the village, and carriage-loads of students and wagon-loads of luggage were arriving every minute. Some of the new comers shook hands with Lester and his two cronies and were introduced to the boys from Long Island; but the majority of them, although they crowded up to the stove to get warm, did not notice Lester and his companions at all.

“Do they feel too big to speak to a fellow?” whispered Dale, who had never been told of the wide gulf that separated the members of the different classes.

“That’s just what’s the matter with them,” answered Jones. “A good many of them are officers, and the others belong to the first class. You must be careful to say ‘sir’ when you have occasion to speak to them.”

“Say ‘sir’ to those little brats of boys!” exclaimed Dale, who was greatly amazed.

“That’s the law.”

“I don’t care if it is; I won’t do it. I am just as good as they ever dare be.”

“No body disputes that,” said Enoch. “Jones is only trying to post you so that you can keep out of trouble. You must not only address them as he says, but you must not address them at all unless they first speak to you. Of course if you want any information, you are at perfect liberty to go to your company officers to get it; the rule does not apply in that case.”