SPRING came early, but none too early for the majority of Beaufort people. In particular, none too early for Ned, whose ankle was proving a check on his farther winter sports; and none too early for Tom, to whom Christmas had brought a gun which he had hardly been able to use even on rabbits; and none too early for Bob, who, as has been said, was not a cold-weather dog.
 
With the of the south winds and the steady dripping , Ned’s ankle and Tom’s cough—keepsakes from that Newton trip—rapidly disappeared; and the nearer ventured the ducks, the stronger felt the two boys. Together—Tom no longer Ned’s , but now, by of that Christmas present, become his brother-at-arms—they haunted the levee, watching for the flight to set in and the ice to go out.
 
Bob accompanied them. But he was not especially interested in ducks. of gun forbade him to hunt them, alive; and instinct forbade him to the bones of them, dead. Summer really was Bob’s only unclouded season, for then he could share in all Ned’s excursions. Still, even a dog cannot go through life without trials.
 
 
All through the spring vacation that ice which had made such good skating on the Mississippi hung and hung, regardless of the fact that its mission had been fulfilled, and that it ought to leave the field to the hunters. Meanwhile the wild had been making use of the Missouri waterway; and when, at last, the blockade in the Mississippi was lifted, and in the shape of enormous floes of slush swept down the channel, against the of the Beaufort bridge and piling up on the shores, the relief was too late.
 
Most of the ducks had passed by, on another route, and Ned and Tom had killed never a one.
 
Tom was disappointed beyond measure. His new gun for its first duck, and but illy submitted to the superior blood-record of Ned’s gun. Probably this is why, in its mistaken , it brought to bag what it did.
 
The duck crop being a failure, the boys had to content themselves with the snipe crop. After the ducks, save now and then a wood-duck or a blue-winged teal which had to stay all summer, were beyond reach of even a thirteen-inch , not to speak of a twelve single-barrel, snipe and still lingered in the and along the edges of the streams.
 
It was the second Saturday in April, and Ned and Tom were among the across the river, raking the country for whatever might be so unlucky as to offer itself as an acceptable target. The of the ice from the Mississippi had given release to that in the sloughs, and everything was springlike and green and .
 
Now it was afternoon. As to what the boys had thus far secured, the less said, the better. Of course, one cannot have good luck on every trip. But there was a chance, yet, to round out the day well, had not Tom’s gun, impatient and unruly, sailed in without waiting, and on its own hook.
 
The was on the boys’ right. They were walking single file—Ned carelessly a few paces ahead, or Tom carelessly a few paces behind, just as critics choose—on the alert for game. It might be a pair of plover winging overhead, or a jack snipe whisking from under their feet, or, possibly, a belated duck squawking from its , or—something else.
 
“Boom!” And Ned was on his knees, and, astonished, was trying not to fall farther.
 
It had happened so very suddenly. The first thing that he knew, his ears had been by a tremendous crash, and at the same instant he had been struck a violent blow on the back, and thrown forward. The next thing that he knew, he was on his knees, and Tom was bending over him, :
 
“I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him! Oh, dear, what shall I do!”
 
“I know you didn’t mean to, Tom,” comforted Ned, still rather as to just what had taken place.
 
“Are you dying, Ned? Don’t die! Oh, don’t die!” pleaded Tom.
 
Ned examined himself, inwardly, a moment, to determine what his exact state might be. He could place no pain; but this was what seemed awful: that he might be dreadfully wounded somewhere, and yet not know it!
 
“Where did it hit me, Tom?” he asked, faintly, and not daring to stir.
 
“I shot your shoulder all to pieces!” cried Tom, wildly. “And my gun wasn’t even cocked!”
 
Ned fearfully looked over at his left shoulder. He his coat at that spot in tatters, and his whole left sleeve torn so that it hung in only threads.
 
With such made, surely there ought to be pain; but on the contrary the sole sensation was a curious in his left side and extending to his left elbow.
 
He wondered if it could be true that he was about to die. He found himself not afraid, although it was hard to die away off there, in the open country, beside a slough. He was sorry for himself, and for his father and mother, and for Tom. What would Bob think? What would the boys and girls say? Poor little Zu-zu would cry and cry, and keep his duck wings forever.
 
“Can you move your arm? Try!” Tom.
 
Ned cautiously tried, and found that he could swing his arm and wiggle his fingers. But it was as though he was experimenting with the arm of somebody else.
 
Both were now becoming somewhat more hopeful. Of the two, Tom, as was natural, was the more excited and frightened, because upon his head rested the accident, and because it was he who could view the full extent of the damage.
 
Ned could only imagine; Tom could both see and imagine.
 
“I don’t believe I’m shot so bad, after all,” Ned, easing himself by settling back upon his heels. “It doesn’t hurt a bit.”
 
“But you are! I’m afraid you are!” moaned Tom, pitifully. “And it’s all my fault, though I don’t see how it ever happened.”
 
From the appearance of that back it seemed to Tom that the whole load must have entered Ned’s shoulder.
 
“Isn’t any one in sight to help us?” Ned.
 
“Not a soul,” said Tom, with a quaver of despair in his voice. “Shall I fix you as good as I can, and then run like lightning and get a , or something?”
 
“I bet I could walk as far as the road,” asserted Ned, pondering. “That would be a better place to leave me, for people are more apt to come along there, you know.”
 
“But I hate to have you walk, Ned,” said Tom. “It might not be right for you.”
 
Nevertheless he took Ned’s hand and helped him get on his feet—which was done with no apparent harm.
 
“I don’t need to be held up,” objected Ned, as Tom started to put an arm around his waist, and lead him off. “You carry the guns. You weren’t going to forget them, were you?”
 
Tom raised Ned’s gun from the spot where it had dropped when Ned himself had dropped, and then gave his own, lying where he had flung it, a kick.
 
“It can stay here and , for all of me,” he declared. “I’ll never touch it again; never.”
 
“Shucks, you will, too,” scolded Ned. “Now you pick it up.”
 
So Tom roughly picked it up. Together the two boys—the injured and the sound—slowly walked across the field, with Tom watching Ned askance, as if expecting him to keel over at any instant.
 
Ned, however, while keeping himself well in hand, and on the for any new and warning symptoms, did not feel the least from the motion.
 
His shoulder was , and only numb.
 
To reach the road they had to cross a railway track; and as they neared it Tom halted and cried, :
 
“Listen!”
 
A , around the curve, fell upon their ears.
 
“A train—it’s a train!” cried Tom. “You stay here and I’ll go ahead and stop it.”
 
“Maybe it won’t stop,” said Ned.
 
“Yes, it will. I’ll make it,” assured Tom, running forward. “They wouldn’t go on and leave you here to die!”
 
Uncertain as to how he would do it, but to stop the train at all hazard, Tom flew for the track.
 
Around the long curve swept the Pacific Coast Limited, due in Beaufort at 3:21. The engineer, peering ahead, was startled to see, planted between the rails in the rapidly nearing distance, a boy with a gun in each hand, threatening the advance of the train.
 
The engineer opened the whistle valve, and the engine sounded its angry, impatient command: “Out of the way!”
 
Tom saw the white of steam, and a second later heard the quick of warning. But he never . He only waved his arms and guns.
 
He tried to make the engineer know; now he flourished the guns, and now he patted his left shoulder, and now he off toward Ned, and wept aloud in his fear that he was not being understood.
 
The engineer and the fireman the gestures, and saw that the boy stubbornly stood and budged not.
 
It seemed to be a question of either slowing down or running over him.
 
To Tom it was a question of either saving Ned or being run over.
 
 
The engineer’s hand on the air-brake lever. The other hand jerked the .
 
Tom saw the engine still closing in upon him at speed—and he only gestured the more.
 
Then, on a sudden, with grinding of wheels, and a disgusted , the train stopped; the pilot of the engine just touched his boot-legs.
 
“What’s the matter with you, eh?” demanded the engineer, , leaning out of his window.
 
“A boy’s been shot! He’s got to be taken to town right away,” explained Tom, hastening around beside the cab, and looking up at the grimy face far above him.
 
He clutched the cab steps , resolved that the train should not start without him.
 
The fireman had jumped to the cab door and was listening.
 
“Well, where is he?” demanded the engineer.
 
“There——” began Tom, but he was interrupted by a brakeman, who, followed by the conductor, came running up from the foremost coach.
 
“What’s the matter here?” asked the brakeman.
 
“A boy’s shot, and you’ve got to take him to Beaufort,” announced Tom, again.
 
“Where is he?” snapped the conductor, now taking hold of affairs.
 
“He’s coming. All right, Ned,” encouraged Tom, to Ned, who was walking as fast as............