Into the middle of that field waded we.  The ducks, of course, arose with a roar, circled once out of range, and departed.  We knew that in less than a minute the boldest would return to see if, perchance, we might have been mere passers-by.  Finding us still there, they would, in the natural course of events, circle once or twice and then depart for good.

Now we had noticed this:  ducks will approach to within two or three hundred yards of a man standing upright, but they will come within one hundred—­or almost in range—­if he squats and holds quite still.  This, we figured, is because he is that much more difficult to recognize as a man, even though he is in plain sight.  We had to remain in plain sight; but could we not make ourselves more difficult to recognize?

After pulling up our rubber boots carefully, we knelt in the two inches of water, placed our chests across two wooden shell boxes we had brought for the purpose, ducked our heads, and waited.  After a few moments overhead came the peculiar swift whistle of wings.  We waited, rigid.  When that whistle sounded very loud indeed, we jerked ourselves upright and looked up.  Immediately above us, already towering frantically, was a flock of sprig.  They were out of range, but we were convinced that this was only because we had mistakenly looked up too soon.

It was fascinating work, for we had to depend entirely on the sense of hearing.  The moment we stirred in the slightest degree away went the ducks.  As it took an appreciable time to rise to our feet, locate the flock, and get into action, we had to guess very accurately.  We fired a great many times, and killed a very few; but each duck was an achievement.

Though the bag could not be guaranteed, the sight of ducks could.  When my brother went with me to the ranch, the duck shooting was very poor.  This was owing to the fact that sudden melting of the snows in the Sierras had overflowed an immense tract of country to form a lake eight or nine miles across.  On this lake the ducks were safe, and thither they resorted in vast numbers.  As a consequence, the customary resorts were deserted.  We could see the ducks, and that was about all.  Realizing the hopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves so strictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical of our wildfowl tales.  Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed him ducks.

They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of two submerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure them accurately.  After they had flown we paced off their bulk.  They had occupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards long by fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thick as ducks could crowd together.  An able statistician might figure out how many there were.  At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen some ducks.

There was one thing about Uncle Jim’s expeditions:  they were cast in no rigid lines.  Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at the last moment should circumstances warrant.