“ABOUT A BUSHEL.” A QUAIL STORY § 137 
“You don’t mean to say you killed a bushel of quail 
to-day ?’’ 
“Why, yes, about a bushel. Are you a stranger 
here?’’ he added. 
“Only got in this morning; I’m on a quail roundup 
myself,’’ I said. 
‘Oh! if that’s so I might as well tell you now right 
off the bat that ‘about a bushel’ in the Territory means 
twenty birds. We’rea very generous, big-hearted people 
down here and talk large amounts in conversation; 
isn’t that so, Dick?” he said, turning to a companion. 
“Tf it is,”’ said a strong bass voice from the surrey 
which I supposed was Dick, ‘‘you’re wrong about 
that bushel as we only have eighteen quail, but I wiped 
your eye three times if you did kill five more than I did.”’ 
The grouch bug was working overtime. But I took 
the hint. When asked about the day’s score after that 
my answer was always, ‘‘About a bushel.’’ 
Before I could shoot in the Indian Territory, it was 
necessary to obtain a shooting permit from the chief 
of the Indian tribe governing our particular section. 
The permit when it came was acuriosity. The gracious 
permission was written on a piece of brown wrapping 
paper with a blue pencil, was undated, and read: 
“‘1 permit gardner to shoot over my land for three 
weeks he promise not to hurt the bird.” 
This document was signed by asingle name with a lot 
of hieroglyphics after it, probably a secret sign that the 
signature was official, as few of the Indian landowners 
could read. There was really more truth than fiction 
in the last clause. I was so green at partridge or quail 
shooting as to be still startled and disconcerted when a 
covey whirred up from around my feet. 
We started early next morning. Dad drove a spank- 
