r end
gave out on a floating platform. A single window in the side and a stove
pipe through the roof completed the external features.

"Door's around in front," explained Mr. Kincaid.

They descended to the float. The door was fastened by a padlock. When
it was opened Bobby saw at first nothing but blackness and the flat
board prow of a duck-boat that seemed to occupy all available space. Mr.
Kincaid, however, lifted this bodily to the float, and, entering, drew
aside the curtain to the little window.

Bobby stood in the middle of the floor and gazed about him with
unbounded delight. The place contained two bunks, one over the other, a
small round iron stove, a shelf table against one wall, and two folding
stools. From nails hung a frying pan, a coffee pot, and two kettles.
Shelves supported a number of cans, while two or three small bags
depended from the ceiling. Those were its main furnishings. But beneath
the bunks and piled in one corner were many painted wooden ducks. Around
the neck of each was wound a long white cord to the end of which was
attached a leaden iron weight; in the bunks themselves lay powder
canisters, shotbags, wad-boxes. At one end of the table was fastened a
crimper and a loading block. Several old pipes lay about. Burned matches
strewed the floor.

"Well, here we are, Bobby," repeated Mr. Kincaid, dropping the valises
in the corner, "and it's pretty near sunset; so I guess we'll organize
our boat first, while it's daylight."

He descended to the float.

"Now, you hand me down the decoys," said he.

Bobby passed out the wooden ducks two by two, and Mr. Kincaid stowed
them carefully amidships. They were of many sorts and sizes, and Mr.
Kincaid named them to Bobby as he received them.

"These are the boys!" said he. "Good old green-heads, Worth all the
other ducks put together. Their celery-fed canvasbacks may be
better--never had a chance to try them--but the canvasback in this
country can't touch the mallards. And here, these are blue-bill. They
come to a decoy almost too easy. This is a teal--fly like thunder and
are about as big as a grasshopper. We'll make our flock mostly of these.
Those widgeon, there, wouldn't do us much good. Might put in a few
sprig. They're a handsome duck, Bobby; but the most beautiful thing in
feathers is the wood-duck. Probably won't get any of them to-morrow,
though."

Bobby worked eagerly. Soon he was in a warm glow, the cold wind
forgotten, his cheeks