“Just three,” returned Maurice, smiling.

“I thought so, and you bagged the whole lot.  I reckon no fellow could have done better than that, at least so you could notice,” quoth Thad, holding up the first victim of his labors so that the shooter could see how plump the bird was.

“Yum, yum,” went on Thad, swinging it to and fro, and gloating over the tempting appearance of the game; “don’t I just wish it was time to sound the gong for supper and these boys browned and ready to be devoured.  But three mortal hours must crawl along before then.  How can I ever stand it?” he groaned.

Maurice was accustomed to these ludicrous actions of his chum, and only laughed at the wry face he made; but, to tell the truth, he would not be sorry himself when the night had settled down over the river, and they were lying in some snug sheltered nook, sniffing the cooking meal.

The birds seemed to be young, and it was decided to try the oven upon them; so Thad went in, after he had them both ready.

Once when the other glanced through the partly open door he saw him trying to make some stuffing out of bread crumbs.  Then the fire was attended to, so that there would be an abundance of heat, after which Thad appeared with the look of a victor on his face.

An hour later and the first scent of dinner began to ooze from the door; whereupon Thad darted in and began to baste the fowl with tender solicitude.

He came out making motions with his lips as though his mouth were fairly watering, and shaking his head in a suggestive way that made Maurice roar.

Meanwhile the boat had been steadily heading down the river, and the same dismal prospect confronted them along the shore—­marshy land, with higher ground further back, an ideal place for ducks, great flocks of which could be seen at this hour flying from the river to some favorite sleeping place in the marsh.

“If this were a hunting expedition, which it is not, we would not need to go a bit further than this place.  Just imagine the shooting a fellow could have in the swampy land beyond—­with some decoys he could bang away for hours at fresh flocks passing back and forth all day trading.  Well, I mean to pick up quite a few now and then, unless we get tired of duck as we did of fish,” Maurice observed, while watching these bunches of feathered squawkers sailing swiftly past the boat and heading shoreward.

“Tired of duck—­why, you could never get me to say that.  I could eat it every meal and every day for a month,” announced Thad, sniffing the air, which was now becoming very strongly impregnated with a delicious odor that announced the nearness to completion of the baking birds.

And when finally they found a place to anchor the shanty-boat—­for trees there were none within reach of their longest cable—­and the shades of evening began to gather around them, Thad went inside to see if dinner were ready for serving.