As though to test these theories, the Red Gods at this moment vouchsafed him a wonderful favour. As he frowned steadily between the reeds, his attention was dragged by a moving object from its abstractions to that which he gazed on so unseeingly. He came to alertness with a snap. A duck flying not a foot above the water swung in an awkward circle and lit with a long furrowing splash not forty feet away. Bobby glanced toward Mr. Kincaid. The latter was gazing at the sky, his hands clasped behind his head. Cautiously Bobby reloaded with the other cartridge, and again thrust the rifle muzzle between the reeds. His entire mind was now occupied by a vengeful spirit against himself because of his first miss. Therefore he had no room for self-consciousness or nervousness. The sights aligned with precision, and held rigidly on the mark. His teeth set, Bobby pulled the trigger. Instantly the duck fell on its side, and, beating the water frantically with its wings, began to kick around in a circle. "I got him! I got him! Oh, he'll get away!" screeched Bobby in a breath. At the crack of the rifle Mr. Kincaid had leaped to his feet with surprising agility. "Well, good boy!" he exclaimed, "I should say you did get him! He won't get away; he's hit in the head." "Is that the way they act when they're hit in the head?" asked Bobby, still doubtful. "Yes. Fetch him, Curly." Bobby took the duck from Curly's mouth and held him up by the bill to drain the water, just as he had seen Mr. Kincaid do. Then he laid his prize across the bow and gloated. It was a very beautiful duck, with an erect topknot of white edged with black running over the top of its head like the plume of a Grecian helmet. The sides of its white breast were covered with feathers of a bright cinnamon tipped with gray; its back was black and gray with fine black edgings; and its wings were dark with a white and iridescent band on each. But what interested Bobby especially was its bill. This differed entirely from the bills of all the other ducks. It was very long and very slender and had teeth! "What kind is it?" asked Bobby looking up to encounter Mr. Kincaid's amused gaze. "Well--it's called a merganser in the books," said Mr. Kincaid. "I'm going to have mama cook it," announced Bobby, and returned to his blissful contemplation. Mr. Kincaid grinned quietly to himself. He would not spoil the little boy's pleasure by telling him that his first trophy was a fish-duck, and, beautiful as it was, utterly useless.