Blue-Bird Weather

"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 out a light across the marsh, and

from dark and infinite distances the east wind bore the solemn rumor of

the sea, muttering of wrecks and death along the Atlantic sands beyond

the inland sounds.

"Well, Jim," he said, "I never thought I'd survive this drive, but here

we are, and still alive. Are you frozen solid, you poor boy?"

The boy smiled, shyly, in negation, as they drove into the bar of light

from the kitchen window and stopped. Marche got down very stiffly. The

kitchen door opened at the same moment, and a woman's figure appeared in

the lamplight--a young girl, slender, bare armed, drying her fingers as

she came down the steps to offer a small, weather-roughened hand to

Marche.