Ben Comee Part 6

He resented it, and threatened them, when plump went a couple of eggs against the boards near his head, and the yolks spattered over his face.

"Don't! Don't you do that, boys! That's mighty mean. When I get out, won't I give you a licking!"

More eggs were thrown, and as he ducked his head, one struck him on the top of his pate. When he raised it, the yellow yolk ran down over his cheeks. Edmund and I told the boys to stop throwing eggs.

"We ain't doing nothing, and 'tain't your business, anyhow."

We stood guard over the boys till we saw the crowd turn toward the whipping-post; and the boys went there to see a man tied to it, and soundly thrashed on his bare back with the cat-o'-nine-tails.

"I've had enough of this, Edmund. Come over to the tavern."

The drummers were beating their drums in front of the inn, and the sergeants were telling their story of the glory, honour, and booty to be gained.

Captain Spikeman stood near by, and if he saw a likely looking man, who seemed to be tempted, he would begin talking to him, and ask him into the tavern to have a mug of flip. Soon after, the sergeant would be called in to pin a c.o.c.kade on his hat and give him the King's s.h.i.+lling to enlist him.

Edmund knew all the officers, who lived at the tavern, and was full of enthusiasm. "Ben, I'd like to go ever so much. I've set my heart on being a soldier. But my time isn't up, and I must serve out my apprentices.h.i.+p."

[Sidenote: RECRUITING]

"That's just my fix. But if the war lasts, we may get a chance yet."

In the afternoon I bade him good-by, and rode back home.

CHAPTER V

PIGEON TUESDAY AND ITS EXPLOITS

Davy Fiske had become a weaver, as I said, and as there were several David Fiskes in town, he was called Weaver David. We used to send yarn up to him to weave, and I wore clothes made of cloth that came from his loom. Early that same spring he came down to the blacksmith's shop with one of his father's horses to be shod, and as I was getting ready, said: "Ben, it's awful to see the boys going off to the war, having all this fun fighting the French and Indians, and to be shut up in that confounded loom, listening to its clatter, when there's so much going on. Jonathan and John have just gone off again, and I must stay at home.

But the pigeons are flying now, and next Tuesday will be Pigeon Tuesday.

They always fly on that day. And there will be rafts of them flying down to the sh.o.r.e. I suppose they go to get a taste of salt, and must have it, just like the cattle. Amos Locke and I are going after them up on Bull Meadow Hill, and we want you to come too."

[Sidenote: WILD PIGEONS]

"I'll go, Davy, if I can get off."

After I had shod the horse, I spoke to Mr. Harrington about it. He said: "You won't need but half a day, Ben. The shooting will be all over by nine o'clock, and you can come back and work in the afternoon."

In the spring flights of pigeons came north very early. They lived in the woods and swamps, and as soon as it began to be light flew down to the sh.o.r.e.

As they came along, we used to toll them down with our decoys. The flight was almost always over by nine o'clock.

When they returned in the evening, they paid no attention to decoys, but made straight for their roost.

Tuesday morning, I was at Davy's house a couple of hours before sunrise and, as usual, found him grumbling because I had not come an hour earlier.

There was a bright moon, and we had plenty of light as we walked over the fields, and Davy told me wonderful stories of his hunting. He was full of superst.i.tions, and had settled on this day as the one particular day in the year when there would be a great flight of pigeons.

"Pigeon Hill, off there to our right, is a pretty good place for pigeons. It's on our land, and I've got a pigeon rig up there. But Bull Meadow Hill is higher and a good deal better. It belongs to Amos's folks. He has a pigeon rig and pole on it, and it will be all ready.

Amos says Bull Meadow got its name because a bull was drowned in a ditch there nigh on to a hundred years ago."

We reached Bull Meadow and went up the hill. Amos was there waiting for us.

"Where have you fellows b-been? I've been at work here for an hour and have got things pretty near ready. I put some new boughs on the booth so that it l-looks all r-right, and I've got a couple of flyers and a flutterer in that basket."

We entered the booth from the rear. The front was open from the covering to within three feet of the ground, so that we could stand up and shoot, and when we crouched down, would be hidden.

[Sidenote: THE PIGEON RIG]

In front of the booth was a post about four feet high, in one side of which the end of a pole about five feet long was fastened so that it worked as if on a hinge. A string was tied to the pole and ran over the top of the post. By pulling the string, the further end of the pole could be raised or lowered by a person in the booth. Further from the booth the top and branches of a small tree had been cut off, leaving a standard twelve feet high, and to this a pole about twenty feet long had been fastened, so that it looked a good deal like a well sweep.

The end of the pole pointed toward the hut, but not directly. It slanted a little to one side in order that when the pigeons lighted on the pole we could get a good raking shot at them. Our pigeons had soft pads of leather called boots sewed round each leg to protect them from the strings which we fastened to them. We tied the strings to the boots of a pigeon, sewed a bandage over his eyes, and tied him to the further end of the pigeon stool. This was the stool pigeon. We also called him the flutterer or hoverer.

"Now give us the flyers."

Amos took out two more pigeons, and we tied long and strong strings to their boots.

"Now they're ready. But there's hardly enough string for the long flyer.

We ought to let him go up at least forty feet."

"Cut a little off the string of the short flyer then, and tie it on to the other. The strings were the same length."

We looked round, to see if any pigeons were flying, but none were in sight.

"There don't seem to be any about. I'm afraid, Davy, Pigeon Tuesday won't be a success this time."

"You wait. They'll be here by and by."

"They're f-flying well now. I was f-fis.h.i.+ng in Swithin Reed's mill p-pond, yesterday afternoon, and Venus Roe came over and said that Swithin shot a lot of pigeons in the m-morning."

[Sidenote: A FLIGHT IN SIGHT]

"Venus Roe! Who's she?"

"D-don't you know? She's a little n-n.i.g.g.e.r girl about twelve years old, and belongs to Swithin. Some one in B-Boston gave her to him when she was a baby."

"Oh, yes! I remember now. I've heard father tell of meeting Swithin riding out from Boston, with a keg of rum in one saddle bag, and out of the other was sticking the head of a three-year-old n.i.g.g.e.r."

"Here comes a flight. Send up your long flyer, Amos."

Amos threw the flyer up. We watched the pigeons. They seemed to be coming toward us.

"Now send up the short flyers."

"They're coming to us. Pull the flyers down and keep hidden. Pull away at the string, Ben, and work the pole, so that the hoverer will keep his wings fluttering. Keep on, Ben. They see him."