ter if I was sure," said Drury.

Crosson called him a natural-born idiot, but the next day Crosson
himself was across the river, dragged by a queer mood. He took his
bearings from the spot where he had fired his shot-gun and then made
toward the place where the duck fell.

He stumbled about in slime and snarl for an hour in vain. Suddenly he
was startled by the sound of something floundering through the reeds. He
was afraid that it might be a wild animal, a traditional bear or a big
dog. But it was Drury Boldin. And Irene Straley was with him.

They were covered with mud. Crosson was jealous and suspicious and
indignant. They told him that they were looking for the hurt bird. He
was furious. He advised them to go along about their own business. It
was his bird.

"Who gave it to you?" Drury answered, with a battling look in his soft
eyes.

"The Lord and my shot-gun."

"What right you got to go shootin' wild birds, anyway?" Drury demanded.

Crosson was even then devoted to the Bible for its majestic music, if
for nothing else. He quoted the phrase about the dominion over the fowls
of the air given to man for his use.

Drury would not venture to contradict the Scriptures, and so he turned
away silenced. But he continued his search. And Irene followed him.

In sullen humor Crosson also searched, till he heard Drury cry out; then
he ran to see what he had found.

Irene and Drury were shrinking back from something that even the son of
Nimrod regarded with disquiet. The duck, one wing caked and festered,
and busy with ants and adrone with flies, was still alive after all
those many days.

Its flat bill was opening and shutting in hideous awkwardness, its
hunger-emaciated frame rising and falling with a kind of lurching
breath, and the film over its eyes drawing together and rolling back
miserably.

At the sight of the three visitors to its death-chamber it made a
hopeless effort to lift itself again to the air of its security. It
could not even lift its head.

Drury fell to one knee before it, and a swarm of flies zooned angrily
away. He put out his hand, but he was afraid to touch, and he only added
panic to the bird's wretchedness.

He rose and backed away. The three stood off and stared. Crosson felt
the guilt of Cain, but when Irene moaned, "What you goin' to do?" he
shook his head. He could not finish his task.

It was Drury Boldin, weak-kneed and putty-faced, who went hunting now.
He had to look far b