“Come on, Aaron, put the bay mare in the buggy.  We’ll drive down to the field.  We haven’t got much time to spare.”

Aaron backed the mare out of her stall and hitched her to the mud-bespattered buggy, and the two men drove off with the wooden pigeons under the seat.  They had not far to go, to a large field intersected with various footpaths and with, a large bare space, which evidently served as a football gridiron.  “This field is used like town property,” explained the doctor, “but the funny part of it is, it belongs to an old woman who is, perhaps, the richest person in Alton, and asks such a price for the land that nobody can buy it, and it has never occurred to her to keep off trespassers.  So everybody trespasses, and she pays the taxes, and we are all satisfied, especially as there are plenty of better building sites in Alton to be bought for less money.  That old woman bites her nose off every day, and never knows it.”

On this barren expanse, intersected with the narrow footpaths, covered between with the no color of last year’s dry weeds and grass, were assembled some half dozen men and boys.  They rushed up as the doctor’s buggy came alongside.  “Got ’em?” they cried eagerly.  Doctor Gordon fumbled under the seat and drew out the batch of wooden pigeons, which one young fellow, who seemed to be master of ceremonies, grasped and rushed off with to the queer-looking machine erected in the centre of the football clearing, for the purpose of making them take wing.  The others went with him.  Doctor Gordon got out of his buggy, accompanied by James, and they, too, joined the little group.  “Got the others?” asked Gordon in a half whisper.

“Yes, you bet.  We’ve got the others all right,” said the young fellow, and everybody laughed.

Men and boys began to gather until the field was half filled with them.  They all wore grinning countenances.  “For Heaven’s sake, boys, don’t act as if it were so awful funny, or you’ll spoil the whole thing,” said the young fellow who had come for the pigeons.

Only one face was entirely sober, even severe, as with resolve, and that was the face of a small, mean-looking man between forty and fifty.  He carried a gun, and looked at once important and greedy.  “That’s Jim Goodman,” whispered Doctor Gordon to James, “and he’s a crack shot, too.  Albert isn’t as sure, though he’s pretty good, too.”

James began to catch the spirit of it himself.  He felt at once disgusted and uneasy about the doctor, but as for himself he was only a young man, after all, and sport was still sweet to his soul.  He shouted with the rest when the first pigeon was launched into the air, and Albert Dodd, a tall, serious young man, fired.  He hit the bird, which at once flew into fragments, as a clay pigeon properly should.

Georgie K. came up and joined them.  He was evidently not in the secret, for he looked intensely puzzled when Jim Goodman, who had next shot, hit his bird fairly, but it only hopped about and descended unbroken.  “What the deuce!” he said.