, and that was about all. Realizing the
hopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves so
strictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical of
our wildfowl tales. Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed him
ducks.

They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of two
submerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure them
accurately. After they had flown we paced off their bulk. They had
occupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards long
by fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thick
as ducks could crowd together. An able statistician might figure out how
many there were. At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen some
ducks.

There was one thing about Uncle Jim's expeditions: they were cast in no
rigid lines. Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at the
last moment should circumstances warrant.

One day Uncle Jim came after me afoot, with the quiet assurance that he
knew where there were "some ducks."

"Tommy is down there now," said he, "in a blind. We'll make a couple
more blinds across the pond, and in that way one or the other of us is
sure to get a shot at everything that comes in. And the way they're
coming in is scand'lous!"

Therefore I filled my pockets with duck shells, seized my close-choked
12-bore, and followed Uncle Jim. We walked across three fields.

"Those ducks are acting mighty queer," proffered Uncle Jim in puzzled
tones.

We stopped a moment to watch. Flock after flock stooped toward the
little pond, setting their wings and dropping with the extraordinary
confidence wildfowl sometimes exhibit. At a certain point, however, and
while still at a good elevation, they towered swiftly and excitedly.

"Doesn't seem like they'd act so scared even if Tommy wasn't well hid,"
puzzled Uncle Jim.

We proceeded cautiously, keeping out of sight behind some greasewood,
until we could see the surface of the pond. There were Tommy's decoys,
and there was Tommy's blind. We could not see but that it was a
well-made blind. Even as we looked another flock of sprig sailed down
wind, stopped short at a good two hundred yards, towered with every
appearance of lively dismay, and departed. Tommy's head came above the
blind, gazing after them.

"They couldn't act worse if Tommy was out waving his hat at 'em," said
Uncle Jim.

We climbed a fence. This brought us to a slight elevation, b