He rattled the padlock on the boathouse, looked at his watch, and sat
down on his duffle-bag. The wind blew strong up the river; the baring
branches of the willows whipped loose their yellow leaves. A dull,
leaden light stole up from the east as the afternoon sun lost its
strength.

By the end of ten minutes, however, the wind carried with it the creak
of rowlocks. A moment later a light, flat duck-boat shot around the bend
and drew up at the float.

"Well, Orde, you confounded old scallywattamus," remarked the man on the
duffle-bag, without moving, "is this your notion of meeting a train?"

The oarsman moored his frail craft and stepped to the float. He was
about ten years the other's junior, big of frame, tanned of skin, clear
of eye, and also purposeful of movement.

"This boathouse," he remarked incisively, "is the property of the Maple
County Duck Club. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Get off this float."

Then they clasped hands and looked at each other.

"It's surely like old times to see you again, Welton," Orde broke the
momentary silence. "It's been--let's see--fifteen years, hasn't it?
How's Minnesota?"

"Full of ducks," stated Welton emphatically, "and if you haven't
anything but mud hens and hell divers here, I'm going to sue you for
getting me here under false pretences. I want ducks."