Home from the Hill by William Humphrey Page A

extra room.”
    â€œSure, Dick,” said one of the others. “Let him come. Remember your own first snipe hunt.”
    At last Mr. Macaulay said well, all right. But for them to remember he had been against it, in case it turned out like he expected it would.
    You went hunting for snipe at sundown, around water-holes, stockponds, he was told. He agreed to meet us. We did not have to tell him not to tell anybody. This was a secret he was delighted to keep. Bring no gun, he was told, and he was not surprised that on his first hunt he was not to be allowed to shoot. He met us on the square as the sun was sinking behind the west side buildings, and we drove out to a farm four or five miles from town.
    Nobody, he observed, carried a gun. He did not want to seem over-curious, and certainly not critical, and every fresh evidence of his green-ness seemed to cause Mr. Macaulay acute disgust and to confirm him in his belief that a great mistake had been made in letting that boy tag along. But it was some distance from the road down to the pond, and on the way he could not resist asking about the guns. You didn’t use a gun to hunt snipe, he learned, and was made to feel ridiculous that he had not known it, but for the moment he learned nothing more.
    It was just getting dusk when we reached the pond.
    Suddenly Bob Edsall came out with, “Dick, why don’t we let Theron here be catcher.”
    â€œCatcher!” cried Mr. Macaulay in astonishment. “Let him be catcher ! I wasn’t even sure he ought to have been brought along in the first place, now you ask me why don’t we let him be catcher !”
    Obviously “catcher” was the choice job, and Theron did not resent Mr. Macaulay’s outrage, but rather agreed with him that he had been done favor enough this first time just to have been brought. Nor did he want there to be any quarrel over him. “It’s all right, Mr. Edsall,” he said. “I’m happy just to be here. I don’t mind if I’m not catcher.”
    But Mr. Edsall wouldn’t hear of it. “Aw, gee whillikers, Dick!” he expostulated.
    â€œNow watch your language,” said Mr. Macaulay sternly.
    We others were fit to bust.
    â€œI apologize, men,” said Mr. Edsall. “But I swear, Dick! Excuse me again. I mean, I swear! You seem to have forgot you was ever a boy yourself. This is his first snipe hunt. Come on now, let him be catcher. So what, if he don’t get quite as many birds as you or me would? There’ll still be enough for all.”
    â€œBut, Mr. Edsall, I don’t mind a bit,” Theron implored. “I’d rather not be catcher. Really.”
    And just then, with a weary sigh, Mr. Macaulay gave in. Theron, realizing the degree to which he was acting contrary to his better judgment, was mighty grateful to him.
    He felt somewhat skeptical when told that we would all go down into the woods and drive the birds up and that all he had to do was stand on the edge of the pond and whistle—like this: Mr. Edsal whistled to show him—short, rapid little peeps—and hold the towsack open wide and the driven birds would fly right into it. But the jacksnipe was a very slow-witted bird, he was told, and who was he, a mere boy, only there on sufferance and now being allowed to be catcher, to doubt the word of grown men and experienced snipe hunters?
    So we left him holding the bag and went down through the woods and cut back to the car, and half an hour later joined the gang on the corner in town. It was a little after eight. Your usual snipe hunter took just about fifteen minutes of listening to himself whistle like a fool to catch on, and an hour to get back; but this was one gullible boy, so we figured double the time for him, and figured it would be about nine-thirty when he came in. The word had been passed around earlier in the day—we had picked a Saturday night when the Captain was known to have