redly
out the back door.

Thomas Toogood was overgrown, and awkward, and seemed always to be doing
the wrong thing. He now sauntered out to the shed, where his father was
feeding the cows and his sister tossing grain to the hens.

"Tom," said his father, pointing to a gun in the corner, "I traded some
corn for a gun for you, in Dover yesterday. They say that wild ducks are
now found on the Cocheco. Thought you might like to try for them."

Tom picked up the gun, looked it over, and said, "All right," but the
look of pleasure on his face told that it was the first gun he had ever
owned.

"Now that you have a gun," spoke up his sister joyfully, "you can take me
to the quilting party in Dover, next week. All our friends are to be
there."

Tom had reasons of his own for wishing to attend that gathering, but he
was especially pleased to be considered manly enough to play the part of
escort. Though Dover was but a few miles away, it was never safe to take
even that trip without a gun for protection.

With his father's suggestion of ducks in mind, Thomas picked up his new
gun and whistled his way along the path to the river, where he kept his
canoe. As he pushed his bark into the stream, he thought that he might
now appease his aunt's anger by a brace of fine ducks for dinner.

Two hours later poor Tom, dripping wet, with one small bird in his hand,
faced the assembled family in the home kitchen.

"Where is your gun?" asked his father immediately.

"At the bottom of the river," replied the boy. "I was reaching for my
duck, and the canoe upset."

"Oh, Tom, you'd upset a sailing vessel if you stepped on it!" came from
his sister. "Now you can't take me to the quilting party. It is just too
bad!"

"You go over to neighbor Roger's and chop his wood," ordered Tom's father
with disgust in his tone. "I told him one of us would do it, for he is
bad in his limbs."

After changing his clothes, Tom started off to the Roger's home, a good
two miles through the woods. The family attitude had dampened his usual
good spirits, and his sister's words had stung. An afternoon's work of
wood splitting brought cheer, at least to the forlorn neighbors, and Tom
started home again whistling.

It was a bad habit, in those days, to make one's presence known in the
woods, and in this case Tom's whistling proved most serious, for
suddenly, he realized that three dusky figures were creeping up the hill
slope behind him. Quick as could be,