A fantastic notion drifted into the preacher's mind--that Satan had shot up a bullet from hell and it had lodged among the feathers of Jehovah the protector, and He was falling and lost among that congregation in which so often the preacher had failed to find God. Doctor Crosson shook his head violently to fling away such madnesses, and he propounded his next "furthermore" with added energy. But he could not shake off the torment in the recollection of Drury Boldin's nagging interest in that wild duck. II Drury insisted on knowing where the wild duck fell, and Crosson told him that it was "near where the crick emptied into the sluice, where the cat-tails grew extra high." He went on home to his supper, but the thought of the suffering bird had seized his mind; it flopped and twisted at the roots of his thoughts. A few days later Drury met him and asked him again where the duck had fallen. "I can't find it where you said," he said. "You ain't been lookin' for it, have you?" "Yes, for days." "What'd you do if you found it?" Crosson asked. "Kill it," Drury answered. It was a most unexpectable phrase from him. "That sounds funny, comin' from you," Crosson snickered. Then he spoke gruffly to conceal his own misgivings. "Aw, it's dead long ago." "I'd feel better if I was sure," said Drury. Crosson called him a natural-born idiot, but the next day Crosson himself was across the river, dragged by a queer mood. He took his bearings from the spot where he had fired his shot-gun and then made toward the place where the duck fell. He stumbled about in slime and snarl for an hour in vain. Suddenly he was startled by the sound of something floundering through the reeds. He was afraid that it might be a wild animal, a traditional bear or a big dog. But it was Drury Boldin. And Irene Straley was with him. They were covered with mud. Crosson was jealous and suspicious and indignant. They told him that they were looking for the hurt bird. He was furious. He advised them to go along about their own business. It was his bird. "Who gave it to you?" Drury answered, with a battling look in his soft eyes. "The Lord and my shot-gun." "What right you got to go shootin' wild birds, anyway?" Drury demanded. Crosson was even then devoted to the Bible for its majestic music, if for nothing else. He quoted the phrase about the dominion over the fowls of the air given to man for his use. Drury would not venture to contradict the Scriptures, and so he turned away silenced. But he continued his search. And Irene followed him. In sullen humor Crosson also searched, till he heard Drury cry out; then he ran to see what he had found. Irene and Drury were shrinking back from something that even the son of Nimrod regarded with disquiet. The duck, one wing caked and festered, and busy with ants and adrone with flies, was still alive after all those many days.