The Young Wild-Fowlers

“What was that noise, Bert?”

Don Gordon raised his head from his pillow, and supporting himself on his elbow, looked out at the open window toward the surf that was rolling in upon the beach, and listened intently.

It was a clear, cold night in October. The fresh breeze that came in through the window from the bay made blankets comfortable, but neither Don nor Bert would consent to have the windows of their sleeping-room closed. This was the first night they had ever passed within sight of salt water, and they wanted the waves to sing them to sleep. In company with Egan and Curtis they had been spending a few weeks with their fat crony, Hopkins, while awaiting the arrival of the water-fowl, which generally make their appearance in numbers in the northern waters of the Chesapeake, about the middle of October. They had ridden to the hounds, and shot quails and snipes until they were tired of the sport, and this particular night found them at Egan’s home, impatiently waiting for a chance at the far-famed canvas-backs.

They had been there but a few hours, having arrived just at supper-time. Egan’s father and mother extended a most cordial greeting to them, and Mr. Egan, who, as we know, was an old soldier, and who never grew weary of hearing Gus (that was the ex-sergeant’s Christian name) tell about that fight at Hamilton Creek Bridge, would not let the visitors go to bed until he had heard their description of it.

Knowing that her son’s guests would want to see all they could of salt water during their stay in Maryland, Mrs. Egan had furnished for their especial benefit a large back room, which looked out upon the bay, and supplied it with beds enough to accommodate them all. Here, when night came, they could lie at their ease and talk over the day’s exploits until the music of the surf lulled them to sleep. On the night in question their tongues had run with amazing swiftness and persistency until nearly twelve o’clock; then they began answering one another in monosyllables, and finally Don Gordon, who was the last to stop talking, placed his pillow in the open window, in front of which his bed stood, laid his head upon it, and was fast losing himself in dream-land, when suddenly a sound like a single peal of distant thunder came to his ears, and brought him back to earth again.

“Are you all asleep in there?” exclaimed Don, drawing in his head, and speaking to nobody in particular. “What was that?”

“What was what?” asked Egan, drowsily.

“Why, that noise I heard just now. It sounded something like the report of a cannon.”

“Well, it wasn’t a cannon; it was a duck-gun,” replied Egan.

“Oh!” exclaimed Don. “Those poachers are at work, are they?”

“Yes; and you will probably hear that gun a good many times during your stay, if you take the trouble to listen for it,” said Egan. “It is harvest-time with these pot-hunters now, and in a few days they will make the ducks so wild that you can’t get within rifle-shot of them.”

“We don’t have any market-shooters in my State—or at least in the county in which I live—and I am very glad of it,” said Don. “Why don’t the farmers who live along these shores wake up, and put a stop to this night-hunting by capturing the guns? I suppose it would put the poachers to some trouble to get others?”

“Well—yes; and to some little expense also,” replied the ex-sergeant. “How much do you suppose one of those big guns cost?”

Don replied that he had no idea, having never seen one of them.

“I saw one last summer that cost six hundred dollars in England,” continued Egan. “It was captured by a detective who was sent here by some Baltimore sportsmen. You see, some of the rich men who live in that city, and in New York and Philadelphia, pay high prices for the exclusive use of a portion of these ducking shores, and they get mad when the market-shooters come around with their howitzers, and scare all the birds away to other feeding-grounds.”

“I don’t blame them for getting mad,” said Don.

“Neither do I. If a man pays four or five hundred dollars a year for a shooting privilege, it is because he thinks he and his friends will have some sport out of it.”

“You don’t mean to say that these shores rent for any such sum as that!” exclaimed Don.

“Don’t I, though?” replied Egan. “Father has been importuned time and again to lease his shores to different clubs, and he might as well make five hundred or a thousand dollars a year as to let it alone; but he likes to shoot as well as anybody, and he likes to see his visitors enjoy themselves, so he keeps his ducking-points for his own use.”

“Do the big-gunners ever trouble you by shooting over your grounds?”

“Not to any great extent. You see the ducks don’t bed in these narrows; they want plenty of elbow-room.”

“What do you mean by ‘bed’?” inquired Don.

“Why, when the ducks gather in large flocks and sit on the water, either during the day-time or at night, they are said to ‘bed’ or ‘bunch.’ When a market-shooter finds one of these beds in the bay, he watches it to see that it does not break up, and when darkness comes to conceal his movements, he goes out and shoots into it. He sometimes gets as many as eighty ducks at a single discharge of his blunderbuss.”

“How large a load does that blunderbuss carry?”

“Half a pound of powder and two pounds of shot.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Don. “How heavy is it?”

“The one I saw weighed a hundred and sixty pounds,” replied Egan. “It was ten feet long.”

“There ought to be a law prohibiting the use of such weapons,” said Don, indignantly.

“There is a law which says that you not only shall not use them, but that you must not have them in your possession,” answered Egan. “If you violate that law, you render yourself liable to a fine of two hundred dollars or imprisonment; but who is there about here who is going to complain of you?”

“Why, the men who own these shores,” replied Don.

“They dare not do it,” said Egan.

“Well, I would do it if I lived here,” declared Don, with a good deal of earnestness.

“Then you would find yourself in trouble directly. These big-gunners are a desperate lot of men, the first thing you know, and they will not submit to any interference in their business.”

“If the law says they shan’t follow that business, I don’t see how they are going to help themselves,” said Don.

“They can take revenge on any one who incurs their displeasure, can’t they? They can and they will. If a person renders himself obnoxious to them, the first thing he knows some of his buildings will go up in smoke, or his boats will be smashed, or the rigging of his yacht cut, or his oyster-bed will be fouled. Why, they don’t hesitate to make a fight with the police, if they are surprised at their business. That Baltimore detective, who worked his way into their good graces and joined them in their night excursions, said that the smack he went out in was as thoroughly armed as any little pirate.”

“I’d like to go out with them just once in order to see how they operate,” said Don, in whom the love of adventure was as strong as it ever had been. “They must see plenty of excitement.”

Egan, who was more than half asleep, replied that they probably did, especially while they were dodging the police-boats; but he did not believe that his friend Don would ever learn by personal observation how the big-gunners conducted their business. Well, he didn’t; but there were others of our characters who did, and who they were, and how they came to be permitted to accompany the poachers on one of their nocturnal expeditions, shall be told further on.

Don would have been glad to hear more of the big-gunners, but a gentle snore coming from the other side of the room told him that Egan had gone to sleep again; so he rearranged his pillow and prepared to go to sleep himself.

The morning dawned bright and clear, and with just enough frost in the salt air to make it invigorating, and to send the blood coursing through one’s veins with accelerated speed. The visitors, who had not been given much opportunity to look about them the night before, were up at the first peep of day, and their host led them out to show them what there was to be seen. As he opened the door and stepped upon the porch, he was greeted by four large, shaggy dogs, which fawned upon him with every demonstration of delight, but showed their white teeth to the other boys when they attempted to scrape an acquaintance with them.

“They are as ugly in disposition as they are homely in appearance,” said Curtis. “Egan, why do you keep such worthless brutes about you?”