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Up bright-eyed at 4:30 a.m., Stevenson cloaked himself in a down-filled hunting coat, pulled on waders, took lessons from Fulbright in the use of a duck call, and stood thigh-deep in the water, banging away at the ducks that flew thick overhead. After five hours, he had his limit of four mallards, returning to Rushing's five-story hunting lodge crying: "These ducks will never vote again." He refused, however, to pose for pictures holding his shotgun triumphantly aloft. Said he: "Some hunter might say, 'Look at that fool.' " That afternoon Stevenson went fishing, boated four bass. Next morning it was another go at the ducks, with less success (he had only three shots, missed with two, hit with the other). At week's end Stevenson returned to Chicago—and to a field where the shooting is strictly political.