Home from the Hill by William Humphrey

leg-pulling, that mountain-style April-foolery that seems all the more delicious the hoarier the device by which the victim is taken in. He could take it and come back for more, had a bottomless fund of trust, and did not harbor any resentment. But instead of being let off because of his spirit, being such an unwearying sucker—irresistible, with those big credulous black eyes and solemn face—he was put through the whole bag of tricks, the entire accumulated tradition. And so one day on the square we began to talk about snipe hunting. God help us now, him dead at nineteen and not even at rest in his grave, but when he rose to the bait that day we looked at each other in unbelieving delight: Lord God, he hadn’t even heard of that one!
    Dick began it. “Been snipe hunting any time lately, Bob?”
    â€œSnipe hunting! I golly!” exclaimed Bob. “Naw, Dick, I haven’t, I’m sorry to say. You?”
    â€œI been thinking of going. Just haven’t got around to it somehow or other.”
    â€œMy, I haven’t been on a good snipe hunt in I don’t know how long!” said Bob, while his eyes clouded over with fond memories.
    Then Dick, with a squint at the weather, said, “Good snipe day today if you ast me.”
    â€œWhy, yeah. This is snipe weather.”
    Said Dick, “You ’member the time we—”
    â€œHaw! Do I! That was a time!”
    Then after a little silence, Dick said, “Well, what do you say to it?”
    Bob looked around at the men, not seeming to see the eager, hopeful boy near him, and said, “Any you fellows be interested in going on a snipe hunt?”
    â€œWhy,” said Joe, “I was hoping you wouldn’t leave me out.” And George, “Count me in!” And Ben, “I’m game.” And Hank, “Can I come, fellows? I ain’t been snipe hunting in years.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know, Hank. That’s five already.”
    â€œAw, let me, Bob. One more won’t hurt.”
    â€œWell, what do you say, Dick? Can we let old Hank in?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. They’s five already.”
    â€œAw, come on, Dick. You know me.”
    â€œWell, all right. But no more now.”
    And then we waited for the fish to nibble. But we had overdone it; he was so impressed he did not dare. So George said, “Oh, tarnation!” We had learned to use innocent cuss words in his presence and now thought it was just killing sport to utter them with much force, as if conscious of using a mighty hard word. “Tar- nation! ” said George. “I can’t. I forgot, I got to see a man about a dog.”
    So then Theron worked up his courage and said, “Mr. Macaulay, you don’t suppose—” And then he gave up, conscious of all the eyes upon him and overcome with awe at his own presumption—or perhaps stung in advance at the prospect of being denied.
    â€œWhat’s that, son?” said Dick Macaulay.
    â€œOh, never mind.”
    But he wanted to go too bad not to give it another try. “I was going to ask if you would please let me come along, Mr. Macaulay. I’d just watch and keep out of the way, and with Mr. Stradum not going after all it wouldn’t be any more than you had meant to take. But I don’t suppose you all would want … just a boy … tagging along. Would you?”
    For the longest time Mr. Macaulay said nothing. As a matter of fact, Dick himself said afterwards—but that was afterwards—that he had been considering calling the whole thing off. But to Theron he looked as if he was trying, with difficulty because it was such a shock, to find a kind way of saying no.
    He turned to Bob. “Mr. Edsall, would you mind very much if I was to come along?”
    Mr. Edsall said it was all right as far as he was concerned, and interceded with Mr. Macaulay for him. “Let the boy come along, Dick. He won’t take up any