“ABOUT A BUSHEL.” A QUAIL STORY 135 
had in pioneer days of always attacking an hour before 
dawn?”’ 
‘““Yes,’’ I said, ‘‘I remember that, but do they get up 
as early in peace as in war time?”’ 
“It don’t seem to make much difference,’’ he an- 
swered. ‘‘The Indians travel a lot on this train; they 
like nothing better than to run down the line a station 
or two to call on some of their friends. They won’t 
travel at night, but if we hit the Indian Territory line 
by three o’clock in the morning it’s all right.” 
Four o’clock of a November morning is a hideous hour 
to arrive anywhere, but it’s worse still to find yourself 
at that hour on the platform of a strange village station, 
watching the red rear lights of the departing train dis- 
appear in the darkness. One meal was plenty at the 
hotel and I started out prospecting for something better. 
Dogs were barking near the outskirts of the village. I 
made the acquaintance of their owner, good old Dad, 
a sportsman of the old school, a fine shot and able to 
make bird dogs do everything but speak. 
There was a son, G. Dan. What did G. stand for? 
Don’t ask me because I don’t know. If I had to make 
a guess I should say, after knowing him, that it stood 
for “‘Gentleman.’’ My! butG. Dancould shoot. The 
first time we shot together was on jacksnipe. The big 
marsh, a couple of miles long, not far from the house, 
was ideal for snipe. Now jacksnipe, you know, are not 
such awful easy birds to hit, but G. Dan didn’t mind 
that. He just strolled along with his pump gun on his 
shoulder. A snipe got up and I killed it. 
‘““How was that?’’ I asked. 
*‘‘Fine,’’ said G. Dan. 
Two snipe jumped from a marshy spot to my left. 
I dropped one. At the sound of the gun a third snipe 
