Ned’s ankle healed all too rapidly, for him; he was out of school only three days. However, it remained weak for a much longer time, affording him the fun of limping about with a cane. The boys quite envied him, and the girls gazed on him with mingled symptoms of awe and pity.

Little Zu-zu Pearce, who, since his rescue of Tom, had adopted him as her own especial hero, came up to him, as he was standing by the schoolhouse steps, and looking at him gravely, said:

“Does it hurt you awful, Ned?”

“Naw,” scoffed Ned. “It’s nothing but just a common sprain, and it’s about well, now.”

“I don’t believe you’d say, even if it was killing you,” asserted Zu-zu, admiringly. “And you were awful brave not to let go of that rope and be killed!”

“Aw, I couldn’t have let go if I’d tried,” asserted Ned, wriggling uneasily. “I was tied on.”

“Well, I don’t care—you didn’t let go, anyway,” returned Zu-zu; and she skipped back to the other girls, leaving Ned red and embarrassed, but nevertheless gazing after her with a pleased expression in his eyes and a kindly warmth in his heart.

But, as in the case of many a badge of honor, the cane presently became irksome. Ned wanted a gun, and he knew that it was no use to aspire to be a hunter if he couldn’t walk and run. So he dropped the cane, now unnecessary, and fell to teasing his father for a shotgun.

Living as they did beside the Mississippi, which is a great thoroughfare for wild fowl in their flights from north to south, and from south to north, each fall and spring the Beauforters were given splendid duck-shooting.

All the men who liked hunting, and nearly all the older boys, and some of the younger whose folks did not care, had guns. Hunting played as important a part in a Beaufort boy’s program as did swimming and rowing.

Although Ned had mastered the two sports last mentioned, it did not seem to his mother that she ever could consent to his taking up the first—hunting with a gun.

Time had proved to her that there were plenty of dangers to which Ned was exposed, without adding to the list powder and lead.

Ned argued for; his mother pleaded against; Mr. Miller listened and smiled, and was strictly non-committal. Down deep in his mind he knew that in the end Ned would win the day.

“Well, Helen, I don’t see but what we’ll have to give the boy the gun,” he remarked to his wife, when they were alone, one evening.

“Oh, Will!” groaned Mrs. Miller, in piteous tones.

“But you see, my dear, it will be very hard to keep him from being with other boys who have guns,” explained her husband, “and it would be better to let him have a gun of his own, and understand how to use it, than to leave him to pick up what he can, and maybe get injured through his ignorance.”

“Oh, Will!” again appealed Mrs. Miller. “It doesn’t seem as though I could agree to it.”

Then mother-like, that her boy might live his strong, sturdy life, she consented.

“Ned,” spoke Mr. Miller, the next noon, “supposing we let you have a gun, will you promise to do exactly as we say?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Ned, promptly.

“And you’ll be careful?” implored his mother, anxiously gazing at him.

“Of course,” assured Ned.

He half-way expected that his father would take him straight down town and buy a gun; but he was disappointed. There were farther preliminaries.

“All right,” said his father. “But before you get the gun, I want to be sure that you know how to handle it. I don’t want you shooting yourself, or shooting anybody else, which would be about as bad. So I’ve arranged with Mr. Russell to take you out and show you a few things.”

Mr. Russell lived across the street. He was a great hunter, and had all manner of shooting stuff. He was known as a very steady, prudent man, and Mr. and Mrs. Miller felt that they could safely trust Ned to him.

As for Ned, his disappointment was not keen, after all. Going out with Mr. Russell, whom he regarded as the finest hunter in town, was next best thing to having a gun, oneself.

“Say——” he began, his face aglow.

“Ned!” rebuked his mother.

“I mean—when are we going?” resumed Ned, too excited to offer other apology. “And will he help me train Bob to be a hunting dog?”

“He’ll let you know when he’s ready,” stated Mr. Miller. “And until then you must wait, and not bother either him or us, about gun or dog.”

Ned strove to walk his paths with patience, and soon was rewarded. The twentieth of September, and the first frost had just passed, and hazelnuts and hickory-nuts were ripe for gathering, when Mr. Russell sent over word for Ned to be ready that night after school, and they would go out for a little while.

“Hurrah!” shouted Ned, capering through the sitting-room. “Did he say to take a lunch, father? Will you put it up, mother? How long are we to stay? Where are we going? Can I stay as long as he does?”

“Oh, Neddie!” protested his mother, placing her hands over her ears.

“Ned, be still!” ordered his father. “I don’t think you’ll need a lunch—although, judging from your appetite, you ought to carry one with you all the time. No, Mr. Russell said that he was merely going out on the flats for an hour, to shoot off some old shells, and that you could help him, if you liked.”

“Oh!” responded Ned, a bit crestfallen. “Shall I take Bob?”

“If neither Mr. Russell nor Bob objects, I’m sure I don’t,” laughed Mr. Miller.

As soon as school was out Ned scurried to Mr. Russell’s, and found him sorting over shells, and stuffing some into his coat pockets. Ned was a little surprised to note that he was dressed just as usual, and evidently did not intend to wear his business-like hunting coat, with its stains from game and weather, and its pockets with here and there a mysterious feather; or his boots; or even his brown cap with slanting visor.

“Hello, young man,” greeted Mr. Russell.

“Hello,” replied Ned. “Are we going to kill anything?”

“Nothing except some cans and chunks of wood, I guess,” responded Mr. Russell.

“Do you want Bob?” queried Ned, hopefully.

“Why, yes; take him along, if you wish to,” answered Mr. Russell, surveying Bob, who was wagging his tail near by. “He’s pretty old to train, now, but we can see if there’s any good in him, maybe.”

Bob, who, at the stroke of the bell for the close of school always hied out upon the front walk to wait for his master, and thus, this afternoon, had caught him ere he entered the Russell gate, had been uneasily sniffing at the gun case, and eyeing Mr. Russell’s preparations. He whined, vaguely and uncertainly. There was something that he didn’t like.

In spite of Mr. Russell’s ordinary garb Ned was as proud as a peacock when they started up the street together, while Bob, with worried air, trotted behind.

The flats for which they were bound lay just west of the town; they were a wide stretch of low, level land, pasture and shallow marsh, given over to cows and frogs.

Ned and Mr. Russell scrambled over a fence, and stopped in a field where there were no cattle or persons within range.

Mr. Russell took the gun from its case, and snapped it together.

“Say—is that your gun?” demanded Ned, surprised. “I thought you had a double-barrel!”

“This is a new one,” replied Mr. Russell. “See, how it comes apart?” and he unsnapped the fore-end, and took off the barrel. “Now you try,” he bade, passing the parts to Ned.

Without hesitation Ned fitted them together. Then he handled the piece fondly.

It was a compact little single-barrel, twelve-bore, with low, rebounding hammer, pistol grip, barrel of bronzed twist, stock of polished walnut, and all the metal trimmings blued, to prevent rust, and avoid alarming game by flashes of sun; in fact, from the sight bead to the rubber butt plate it seemed a perfect little gun.

“My!” sighed Ned, boldly putting it to his shoulder, and aiming into space. “It is choke-bore, Mr. Russell?”

“Yes, siree,” assured Mr. Russell, who had been watching him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall I show you?” and he extended his hand.

With a final loving pat of the breech Ned regretfully turned the gun over to him, and awaited the next number on the program.

Mr. Russell inserted a shell, and said:

“Now go off from me about thirty yards, and throw up this tin can, and let’s see what I can do to it.”

Ned obeyed. He ran out, close followed by Bob, until Mr. Russell told him to stop.

“Throw it high, and away from you,” called Mr. Russell.

Up sailed the can. “Bang!” went the gun. “Clink!” sounded the shot cutting the tin. The can jumped in its arc, and striking the ground rolled over and over as though it had been mortally wounded.

Ned raced to pick it up. It was now a sorry looking can; and he brought it to Mr. Russell, counting the shot holes as he did so.

“Sixteen!” he announced, triumphantly, giving it over for inspection.

“That’s very fair,” commented Mr. Russell, carelessly glancing at it. “There goes your dog,” he added, pointing across the field.

Sure enough; there was Bob, two hundred yards away, and making a bee-line for home. He never looked back. His tail was between his legs and his back was humped, and even at that distance his whole mien told of outraged feelings.

“Here, Bob! Here, Bob!” called Ned; but he called and whistled in vain.

“No use, Ned,” remarked Mr. Russell, laughing. “He’s gun-shy. Somebody must have shot at him, once; or fired off a gun close to his ears; and now, you see, he’s afraid when he hears a report.”

“Won’t he get over it?” asked Ned, astonished and puzzled.

“No, I don’t think he will,” answered Mr. Russell. “He’s spoiled for hunting.”

“Well,” said Ned, gazing after poor Bob, now a speck townward. “It isn’t his fault, anyway. He can’t help it.”

“Supposing you try a shot,” proposed Mr. Russell, handing the gun and a shell to him.

Bob’s failure to toe the scratch, in this, the only particular, vanished from Ned’s mind. He gladly seized gun and shell.

“No, that’s not the right way to put in a cartridge,” corrected Mr. Russell, kindly. “You have the muzzle pointed exactly at my stomach! And when you close the breech, that will bring the muzzle about at my mouth! Let me show you a better way.”

“There!” he continued, returning the weapon to Ned. “When you load, always be sure that nobody is in line with the piece. The chances are that the shell won’t explode, but if it should, even once in a thousand times, or in ten thousand, and there be an accident, you’d never forgive yourself. It’s impossible to be too cautious, and it’s very easy not to be cautious enough, Ned.”

Ned, somewhat abashed, but impressed by the earnestness of Mr. Russell’s voice, this time loaded more carefully, and Mr. Russell had him repeat the operation to make certain that the lesson was learned.

“One small mistake might ruin your whole life, Ned,” warned Mr. Russell. “So start right. And now for a mark,” he proceeded. “I’ll set a can on that fence post, yonder, and I’ll wager that you can’t put as many shot in it as I did in that other can on the fly. Did you ever shoot a gun?”

“Once,” confessed Ned, reluctantly. “A long time ago. And it kicked me over, and made my lip bleed, and when I came home, and father found out he said it served me right. It was Chuck Donahue’s; his big muzzle loader.”

“Did you hit anything?” queried Mr. Russell, smiling as he walked away.

“N-n-no,” admitted Ned. “At least, there was only one shot-hole, and Chuck said he made it. But I’ve aimed lots of times,” he added, to prove that he was not lacking in experience.

“Here!” called Mr. Russell, looking back. “Keep that gun pointed toward the ground until you’re taking aim! I don’t want to be speckled all over with lead.”

“It isn’t cocked,” explained Ned.

“That makes no difference,” retorted Mr. Russell. “Always handle a gun, empty or loaded, cocked or not, as though you expected that it would go off at any moment. That should become a fixed habit. Will you remember—or shall we stop?”

“Oh, I’ll remember,” pledged Ned.

And, barring a few slight lapses, he did.

Mr. Russell balanced the smooth round can on the fence post, and walked to one side.

“All ready,” he announced.

Ned leveled the piece, and pulled on the trigger. He couldn’t budge it.

“Why not cock your gun?” inquired Mr. Russell, quizzically.

Ned blushed. What a number of blunders he had made! Mr. Russell would think him very stupid.

He aimed again.

“Bang!”

The stock of the gun flew up and jarred his head, but he didn’t mind. He peered through the thin smoke. The can had disappeared.

“I hit it! I hit it! I know I hit it!” he cried, setting out on the dead run.

“I should say you did!” assured Mr. Russell, delighted, picking up the can and examining it. “Bravo! Fifteen—sixteen, seventeen! You beat me by one!”

Ned clutched the can, and delivered the gun into cooler keeping. He scanned his trophy inch by inch, and gloated over the many holes. Mr. Russell noted his puffed lip, and smiled.

“If you hadn’t taken in me, too, when you swung your gun, to aim,” he commented, “you might not have been punished by that lip.”

“Oh!” uttered Ned, a little taken aback, and becoming conscious of his bump.

“Next time you’ll hold the gun tighter against your shoulder—and be more careful in that other respect, too,” said Mr. Russell, simply.

They stayed on the flats for an hour and a half, and used up all of Mr. Russell’s cartridges; and when Ned went home he fairly was bursting with information. He carried with him that riddled tin can, and with no small degree of pride showed it to the family and to the boys of the neighborhood. He had hit other cans, during the lesson, but this was the result of his first shot!

Bob was waiting for him, at the front gate. He greeted his master with a sheepish, apologetic manner, as though to say:

“I didn’t mean to act so silly; but you know, I can’t help it.”

“That’s all right, Bob,” comforted Ned. “I understand. You shan’t go again.”

Whereupon Bob whined wistfully, as much as to say:

“Well, I don’t think you ought to go, then, either.”

Bob, you see, was just a mite selfish in regard to Ned.

During the next week Ned went out several times with Mr. Russell, and began to feel like quite a veteran. He not only could hit stationary cans, but he learned to hit things tossed into the air. To tell the truth, he was a fine pupil.

“Ned, Mr. Russell thinks that the public won’t suffer if we go ahead now and trust you alone with a gun,” observed Mr. Miller, one evening, at the supper table. “He says you’re learning well, and that all you need do is remember.”

“I can hit a little piece of bark thrown up forty yards away,” asserted Ned, confidently.

“Very good,” responded his father, pushing back from the table. “But I didn’t get Mr. Russell to teach you that, so much as to teach you not to hit some objects more important!”

He went into the bedroom, and came back, bearing a gun case.

“How do you like it?” he said, giving it to Ned.

With feverish fingers Ned unbuckled the straps. The case had looked familiar; the gun was still more familiar.

“Say——” he burst out. “Is it mine? Did Mr. Russell give it to me? Did you buy it of him? It’s the very same gun!”

“So it is,” replied his father, pleased to see him so pleased. “I had Mr. Russell pick it out for me the day after you and your mother and I talked together; so you’ve been using it all this time, and now you’re acquainted with it. It’s yours.”

“Not yet,” interrupted Mrs. Miller. “Wait a moment. Give the gun to me, Ned.”

Ned wonderingly surrendered the treasure.

“Neddie,” she declared, holding it behind her back, and trying not to laugh, “you can’t have it unless you promise not to use that dreadful ‘say’ any more!”

“I won’t, I won’t!” vowed Ned, in alarm.

“Won’t what?” insisted his mother.

“Won’t say ‘say’ any more,” cried Ned.

“Or as much,” restricted his mother, firmly.

“I won’t say it at all,” promised Ned.

With a kiss his mother restored the gun to his eager grasp.

The only personage within Ned’s circle of relatives and friends who did not rejoice with him in his new gun was Bob. Poor Bob! The weapon was an eye-sore to him. When his master brought it out Bob gazed at him reproachfully, and slunk off, dejected, woebegone. No coaxing could lift his spirits, or induce him to come outside the yard, when the gun was in sight.

The gun was the only break that ever occurred in the relationship between Ned and his dog.

Ned speedily waxed to be a crack shot among his fellows. He practiced incessantly, to the death of countless tin cans, and the disappearance of his savings.

Mr. Miller did not object, but he outlined his views in a little lecture on shooting in general.

“Destroy all the cans you want to, Ned,” he laughed. “They’re fair game.” Then he grew graver: “That’s right. I want you to learn to shoot straight, so as to kill when you intend to. But don’t shoot for practice at innocent birds. They love to live, as well as you. Don’t risk shots at game when the chances are that you can merely wound. Shoot straight, and kill outright. Better let a duck go, than maim it, so that it is liable to linger and suffer for hours or days. That is why I gave you a single-barrel, and had it heavily choked. You will be more careful than if you had a second barrel to fall back upon, and when the load hits a bird, it will hit to kill.”

“Oh, Neddie! I do wish that you would be content to shoot at cans and such things, like you are doing now,” pleaded his mother.

“Why, mother!” exclaimed Ned, horrified. “We can’t eat cans!”

“So far as eating is concerned, Ned,” spoke his father, drily, “we shan’t go back on our butcher just yet, even though you have got a gun! We might need him.”

Of all the boys who accompanied Ned, to throw cans and blocks about at his bidding, Tom Pearce was the most faithful, although Hal likewise went quite often, and was trying to have his father get him a gun, also.

The frosty nights and the soft, delicious days of Indian summer arrived; with them arrived the ducks, who well knew that winter was near at hand, in ambush on the borders of autumn.

Ned’s neck was stiff from perpetually searching the heavens to discover scurrying flocks. He talked ducks from morn to eve, and dreamed ducks from eve to morn, and the family assured him that he certainly would turn into one, if he didn’t let up.

And so far, despite his hunting excursions, and his tales of “big mallards” that he “almost” got, the family table was still innocent of game.

The tenth of November, and behold Ned, and Tom, his squire, across the river, trudging among the winding sloughs that formed a popular Beaufort hunting-ground. They had started from home at four in the morning—as was their custom; and had been tramping ever since—as, again, was their custom; and had not shot a single duck—which, alas, also was their custom. Ducks were much more crafty than tin cans.

Yet the boys thought that tramping all a long day, laden with gun and shells and boots, through swamp and over fields; with a few mouthfuls of cold breakfast, and a cold lunch hastily gobbled; and at the

last not a feather to reward them, was much less work than piling wood, for instance, or going down town for a yeast-cake!

Perseverance has its reward. On this tenth of November Ned and Tom had stopped in a fence corner to eat their lunch, which consisted mainly of bread and butter and sugar, hard boiled eggs, and cookies. They had stiffly arisen, and had walked forward not twenty paces, when up from under the high bank of a narrow inlet just in front of them, jumped straight into the air, with a quack and a sputter, a panic-stricken something, and was off like a bullet.

“Ned!” blurted Tom.

“Bang!” spoke the gun.

Down to turf upon the other side of the inlet plumped the something, magically stopped in mid-flight.

“You got him! You got him! Hurrah!” howled Tom, dashing through the water, up over his knees—and boots.

“Hurrah!” cheered Ned, in his wake.

It had happened so quickly that he was quite beside himself. He had no recollection of taking aim. He had no recollection of anything save a feathered blurr in the air, his gun banging—and the feathered blurr had disappeared.

Through the shallow inlet they plashed, reckless of consequences. On the way Ned ejected the empty shell and inserted, with trembling fingers, a new one, to be ready in case the victim should suddenly make off!

The precaution was unnecessary. The victim was past all “making off.” Tom reached it first, where it lay, a shapeless, pathetic little lump of down and quill, twenty yards from the water’s edge, and grabbed it with the zeal of a retriever.

“It’s a wood-duck!” he cried, joyfully.

Ned panted up, and with scant courtesy snatched it from him.

“’Tain’t, either,” he said, scornfully. “It’s a green-wing teal. See there.”

Tom meekly granted the correction as coming from one who owned a new gun and must know.

The boys turned the limp bunch—no larger than a pigeon, but, nevertheless, their first prize—over and over in their hands, marking its every feature.

Unlucky duckling; its life, begun only that summer, had quickly ended.

At last Ned tucked it in the pocket of his hunting-coat, and on they strode, feeling now on the highway to slaughter.

Every few minutes Ned caressingly fingered the warm, soft ball hanging against his left hip. He hoped that it would make a bloody spot on the canvas of the pocket. Although he had done his best, the coat was still altogether too fresh.

No more game fell to his gun that day; but neither he nor Tom cared. They were not to go home empty-handed.

All the way through the streets Ned wondered if people suspected what he was carrying concealed in that pocket; and he bore, without caring, the gibes of sundry hateful urchins:

“Aw, didn’t get nothin’! Didn’t get nothin’! Ain’t he a big hunter, though!”

Tom stayed and helped him clean the teal. They sat in the barn door, and scattered the feathers into the alley, while Bob sniffed and sniffed at their operations. The smell of the duck seemed to revive in his blood old instincts, inherited from his parents, and he was unhappy and puzzled.

“You didn’t kill that all at once, did you?” laughed a man, driving past.

Well, it had not been very big, with the feathers on, and it was very much smaller, with the feathers off. But it was a duck!

The boys counted the shot-holes, and traced where each pellet had gone in and come out. They agreed that Ned’s aim had been exactly right and that the gun was a wonder.

Into the midst of their pleasure crept an undercurrent of pity which stopped just short of regret.

“Seems kind of too bad, to kill it, doesn’t it,” commented Tom, weighing the wee, cold, bare morsel in his palm.

“Y-y-yes,” admitted Ned. “But I guess he never knew what struck him.”

The wings, with their band of shiny emerald, had been put aside, to keep.

“Here,” said Ned, holding them out to Tom, as that stanch follower was on the point of going home. “Take ’em.”

“No, you keep ’em,” insisted Tom.

“Give ’em to Zu-zu, then,” blushed Ned, as if that was a second thought. “She can wear ’em in a hat.”

Ned was duly congratulated on his success by the family. The duck went to the ice-box, and was roasted and served to him for dinner the next day.

“Oh, Neddie!” exclaimed his mother, as the teal, now, after cooking, was smaller than ever. “Do you mean to say that it took two boys and a gun and nearly a whole day to kill a poor little bird like that?”

“It’s good, anyway,” excused Ned, his mouth full.