“Making as little noise as possible they beached the rowboat and Giant silenced the dog, not knowing what he might do while on a hunt.

“Perhaps he’s a good bird dog and perhaps he isn’t,” he said.  “We’ll take no chances.”

Each of the young hunters had his shotgun, and one after another they followed Shep to the spot where the game had been seen among the trees.  High among the branches of a silver maple tree they saw some ruffed grouse, commonly known to many sportsmen as partridge.

“There’s our chance,” said the doctor’s son.  “Who is to fire?”

“Let us all take a chance,” pleaded Giant.  “Just to open the outing, you know.”

Shep was willing, and said he would give the word.  With great caution they crept as close as possible to the grouse.  The birds were on three branches of the maple, one over the other.

Silently the four boy hunters raised their firearms.  Shep looked at them and then along the barrel of his piece.

“Fire!” said he, and one shot rang out after another quickly.  There was a mad whirring and fluttering from the ruffed grouse.  Two dropped like lead, while two others flew around in a circle, badly wounded.  Then the boys discharged their guns again, and wounded two more birds.  As the game came down they rushed in and wrung the necks of those not already dead.

“Six, all told,” said Giant proudly.  “That’s one and a half apiece.”

“Not so bad,” answered Snap.

“It’s dandy!” shouted Whopper, throwing up his cap in his delight.  “Now we can have roast partridge for dinner, and supper, too, if we want to.”

“Right you are,” came from Shep.  “I believe we all made a hit,” he added.

“A hit?” repeated Whopper.  “We all made home runs!” And at this reference to baseball all of the boys laughed.

Taking the game to the rowboat, they resumed their journey, and by noon reached the watercourse connecting the two lakes.  Here they stopped at a spot well known to them and built a camp fire, and here they roasted all of the game, fearing it might not keep in such hot weather.

“I’m going to try baking ’em in mud,” said Giant, who had learned the trick from Jed Sanborn.  Leaving the feathers on the grouse the lad plastered each bird thickly with some clayey mud, and then placed them in the fire to roast, or bake, as he called it.  He watched them with care and tried one frequently to see if it was done.

“Now I guess this will do,” he said at last, and cracked the baked mud from the grouse.  With the mud came the feathers of the bird, leaving the meat clean.  The grouse was tender and juicy and done to a turn.

“Giant, you’ll have to get a job as a chef in a big hotel,” said the doctor’s son, smacking his lips over the feast.  “This game certainly couldn’t be, better.”

“Why not leave some of the partridge right in the baked mud?” suggested Snap.  “It ought to keep well that way.”