At the steps of a Fifth Avenue club, Farbish halted.

"Won't you turn in here," he suggested, "and assuage your thirst?"

Samson declined, and walked on. But when, a day or two later, he
dropped into the same club with George Lescott, Farbish joined them in
the grill--without invitation.

"By the way, Lescott," said the interloper, with an easy assurance
upon which the coolness of his reception had no seeming effect, "it
won't be long now until ducks are flying south. Will you get off for
your customary shooting?"

"I'm afraid not." Lescott's voice became more cordial, as a man's will
whose hobby has been touched. "There are several canvases to be
finished for approaching exhibitions. I wish I could go. When the first
cold winds begin to sweep down, I get the fever. The prospects are
good, too, I understand."

"The best in years! Protection in the Canadian breeding fields is
bearing fruit. Do you shoot ducks, Mr. South?" The speaker included
Samson as though merely out of deference to his physical presence.

Samson shook his head. But he was listening eagerly. He, too, knew
that note of the migratory "honk" from high overhead.

"Samson," said Lescott slowly, as he caught the gleam in his friend's
eyes, "you've been working too hard. You'll have to take a week off,
and try your hand. After you've changed your method from rifle to
shotgun, you'll bag your share, and you'll come back fitter for work. I
must arrange it."