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Page 18
"Why, they are--" stammered James.
"Just so, young man," replied Doctor Gordon. "They are wood. Aaron made
them on a lathe, and not a soul can tell them from the clay pigeons
unless they handle them. Now you are going to see some fun. Jim Goodman,
who is the meanest skunk in town, has cheated every mother's son of us
first and last, and this afternoon he is going to shoot against Albert
Dodd, and he's going to get his finish! Dodd knows about it. He'll have
clay pigeons all right. Goodman has put up quite a sum of money, and he
stands fair to lose for once in his life."
"Come on, Aaron, put the bay mare in the buggy. We'll drive down to the
field. We haven't got much time to spare."
Aaron backed the mare out of her stall and hitched her to the
mud-bespattered buggy, and the two men drove off with the wooden pigeons
under the seat. They had not far to go, to a large field intersected
with various footpaths and with, a large bare space, which evidently
served as a football gridiron. "This field is used like town property,"
explained the doctor, "but the funny part of it is, it belongs to an old
woman who is, perhaps, the richest person in Alton, and asks such a
price for the land that nobody can buy it, and it has never occurred to
her to keep off trespassers. So everybody trespasses, and she pays the
taxes, and we are all satisfied, especially as there are plenty of
better building sites in Alton to be bought for less money. That old
woman bites her nose off every day, and never knows it."
On this barren expanse, intersected with the narrow footpaths, covered
between with the no color of last year's dry weeds and grass, were
assembled some half dozen men and boys. They rushed up as the doctor's
buggy came alongside. "Got 'em?" they cried eagerly. Doctor Gordon
fumbled under the seat and drew out the batch of wooden pigeons, which
one young fellow, who seemed to be master of ceremonies, grasped and
rushed off with to the queer-looking machine erected in the centre of
the football clearing, for the purpose of making them take wing. The
others went with him. Doctor Gordon got out of his buggy, accompanied by
James, and they, too, joined the little group. "Got the others?" asked
Gordon in a half whisper.
"Yes, you bet. We've got the others all right," said the young fellow,
and everybody laughed.
Men and boys began to gather until the field was half filled with them.
They all wore grinning countenances. "For Heaven's sake, boys, don't act
as if it were so awful funny, or you'll spoil the whole thing," said the
young fellow who had come for the pigeons.
Only one face was entirely sober, even severe, as with resolve, and that
was the face of a small, mean-looking man between forty and fifty. He
carried a gun, and looked at once important and greedy. "That's Jim
Goodman," whispered Doctor Gordon to James, "and he's a crack shot, too.
Albert isn't as sure, though he's pretty good, too."
James began to catch the spirit of it himself. He felt at once disgusted
and uneasy about the doctor, but as for himself he was only a young
man, after all, and sport was still sweet to his soul. He shouted with
the rest when the first pigeon was launched into the air, and Albert
Dodd, a tall, serious young man, fired. He hit the bird, which at once
flew into fragments, as a clay pigeon properly should.
Georgie K. came up and joined them. He was evidently not in the secret,
for he looked intensely puzzled when Jim Goodman, who had next shot, hit
his bird fairly, but it only hopped about and descended unbroken. "What
the deuce!" he said.
"Hush up, Georgie K.," said Doctor Gordon. The other man turned and
looked at him keenly, but the doctor's imperturbable, smiling face was
on the sport. Georgie K.'s great pink face grew grave. Every time Albert
Dodd fired the pigeons dropped in pieces, every time Jim Goodman fired
they hopped as if they were alive. Jim Goodman swore audibly. He looked
to his cartridges. The whole field was in an uproar of mirth. The
gunshots were hardly audible for the yells and wild halloos of
merriment. The match at last was finished. Jim Goodman's last pigeon
hopped, and he was upon it in a rage. He took it up and examined it. It
was riddled with shot. He felt it, weighed it. Then his face grew
fairly black. From being only mean, he looked murderous. He was losing
money, and money was the closest thing to his soul. He looked around at
the yelling throng, one man at bay, and he achieved a certain dignity,
even in the midst of absurdity.
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