"
"Waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' I'll take ye 'long
o' me."
"But I haven't any gun, Uncle Adam."
"Don't need none! I'm a-goin' to show ye what guns Is _fer_. When
you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. I
ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and
bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their
game. I s'pose it's plain that the A'mighty made wild fowl to be shot,
but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die
in misery ain't human, he ain't! Make clean work o' it, or let 'em
alone, _I_ say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner
that convinced Morton the conference was over.
So he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the
wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff
and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his
ruddy cheek.
Away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just
rounding Rocky Point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying
straight in for Killamet beach.
"How pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he
was a big man he would sail his own craft,--the end and aim of every
fisher-boy along the Atlantic coast.
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