The gun was the only break that ever occurred in the relationship between Ned and his dog.
Ned speedily waxed to be a crack shot among his fellows. He practiced incessantly, to the death of countless tin cans, and the disappearance of his savings.
Mr. Miller did not object, but he outlined his views in a little lecture on shooting in general.
"Destroy all the cans you want to, Ned," he laughed. "They're fair game." Then he grew graver: "That's right. I want you to learn to shoot straight, so as to kill when you intend to. But don't shoot for practice at innocent birds. They love to live, as well as you. Don't risk shots at game when the chances are that you can merely wound. Shoot straight, and kill outright. Better let a duck go, than maim it, so that it is liable to linger and suffer for hours or days. That is why I gave you a single-barrel, and had it heavily choked. You will be more careful than if you had a second barrel to fall back upon, and when the load hits a bird, it will hit to kill."
"Oh, Neddie! I do wish that you would be content to shoot at cans and such things, like you are doing now," pleaded his mother.
"Why, mother!" exclaimed Ned, horrified. "We can't eat _cans_!"
"So far as eating is concerned, Ned," spoke his father, drily, "we shan't go back on our butcher just yet, even though you _have_ got a gun! We might need him."
Of all the boys who accompanied Ned, to throw cans and blocks about at his bidding, Tom Pearce was the most faithful, although Hal likewise went quite often, and was trying to have his father get him a gun, also.
The frosty nights and the soft, delicious days of Indian summer arrived; with them arrived the ducks, who well knew that winter was near at hand, in ambush on the borders of autumn.
Ned's neck was stiff from perpetually searching the heavens to discover scurrying flocks. He talked ducks from morn to eve, and dreamed ducks from eve to morn, and the family assured him that he certainly would turn into one, if he didn't let up.
And so far, despite his hunting excursions, and his tales of "big mallards" that he "almost" got, the family table was still innocent of game.
The tenth of November, and behold Ned, and Tom, his squire, across the river, trudging among the winding sloughs that formed a popular Beaufort hunting-ground. They had started from home at four in the morning--as was their custom; and had been tramping ever since--as, again, was their custom; and had not shot a single duck--which, alas, also was their custom. Ducks were much more crafty than tin cans.