en."

"You're a big boy, all right. I have never seen your father. He is at
the clubhouse, no doubt."

"Yes, sir," scarcely audible.

"And you and he live there all alone, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir." A moment later the boy added jerkily, "And my sister," as
though truth had given him a sudden nudge.

"Oh, you have a sister, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"That makes it very jolly for you, I fancy," said Marche pleasantly.
There was no reply to the indirect question.

His pipe had gone out again, and he knocked the ashes from it and
pocketed it. For a while they drove on in silence, then Marche peered
impatiently through the darkness, right and left, in an effort to see;
and gave it up.

"You must know this road pretty well to be able to keep it," he said.
"As for me, I can't see anything except a dirty little gray star up
aloft."

"The horse knows the road."

"I'm glad of that. Have you any idea how near we are to the house?"

"Half a mile. That's Rattler Creek, yonder."

"How the dickens can you tell?" asked Marche curiously. "You can't see
anything in the dark, can you?"

"I don't know how I can tell," said the boy indifferently.

Marche smiled. "A sixth sense, probably. What did you say your name is?"

"Jim."

"And you're eleven? You'll be old enough to have a gun very soon, Jim.
How would you like to shoot a real, live wild duck?"

"I _have_ shot plenty."

Marche laughed. "Good for you, Jimmy. What did the gun do to you? Kick
you flat on your back?"

The boy said gravely: "Father's gun is too big for me. I have to rest it
on the edge of the blind when I fire."

"Do you shoot from the blinds?"

"Yes, sir."

Marche relapsed into smiling silence. In a few moments he was thinking
of other things--of this muddy island which had once been the property
of a club consisting of five carefully selected and wealthy members, and
which, through death and resignation, had now reverted to him. Why he
had ever bought in the shares, as one by one the other members either
died or dropped out, he did not exactly know. He didn't care very much
for duck shooting. In five years he had not visited the club; and why he
had come here this year for a week's sport he scarcely knew, except that
he had either to go somewhere for a rest or ultimately be carried,
kicking, into what his slangy doctor called the "funny house."

So here he was, on a cold February night, and already nearly at his
destination; for now he could make