146 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
my stand. He sat motionless for fifteen minutes and 
then said: 
‘‘Waste heap shot.” 
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘‘but have heap fun.” 
‘‘Um! Meno shoot wing, shoot him on foot, get heap, 
six, maybe seven, every time, no waste shot.” 
G. Dan got twenty-two and I got fourteen that 
afternoon. I gave four to the old Indian. He never 
said a word or batted an eye, just took the ducks, turned 
round, and walked off. 
My last day with the quail was as enjoyable as the 
first one. All of us were shooting that day. We 
wanted a real bushel of quail for me to carry home and 
brag about. G. Dan had sold his pump gun and carried 
his double. We drove several miles beyond the cus- 
tomary limit of the village shooters. It was the greatest 
quail country out of doors. How quietly all com- 
mands were given to the dogs. How marvelously well 
they behaved, perfect in finding, backing, and re- 
trieving. It was a great pleasure to shoot over them. 
The countryside rang with the reports of our guns. 
We had all the birds needed before noon. A blind man 
could kill quail in that country. As we were smoking 
after lunch I said to Dad: 
‘‘Betty seems to know it all. She always does the 
right thing. Was she hard to train?” 
“TI should say not,’’ Dad answered. ‘She has 
brains in her head; as soon as she knew what was wanted 
she almost trained herself.’’ 
‘‘Couldn’t she win in Field Trials?’’ I asked. 
‘Possibly in Members’ Stakes, but she hasn’t the 
training for Championship Trials.’’ 
‘‘Why, Betty seems trained enough to beat the band.”’ 
‘‘There’s different kinds of training,’’ Dad answered. 
