164 ‘COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
or forty pound drumfish every day to boil for dog feed. 
Except for the sport of it no hooks or fish lines were 
needed, all the fish a regiment would eat could be had in 
a couple of hours. The real standby was the cast net, 
and our victims the universal mullet, the national fish 
of Florida, just the right size to cook ina fry pan. Tom 
caught and we ate them by the score, until even now 
after all these years I am ashamed to look a self-re- 
specting mullet in the face. 
One of the pleasantest camps we had on the trip was 
on the Indian River opposite Cape Canaveral light- 
house, on the main shore side. Making camp was not 
hard work. The blankets were spread in the sun 
on the sandy beach to dry. The mosquito nets, with 
canvas tops to keep off the dew, were put up while Tom 
started a fire. Then we were at home. Our tent was 
rarely used, unless Tom thought it was going to rain 
—but it rained when Tom thought it would, good solid 
rainstorms they were too, one or two days of streaming 
wet weather. 
There were plenty of quail around our camp and we 
had great sport with them. ‘‘Old Dreary,’’ our most 
intelligent hound, soon learned to hunt them. He didn’t 
understand at first, but after I shot one and most 
unfortunately let him eat it he tumbled to the game. 
At the first scent of quail, he would begin to wag his 
tail. The nearer he got the faster his tail would wag. 
When the quail flew you had to shoot and pick the quail 
up before the dog reached it, otherwise ‘‘Old Dreary”’ 
ate it. It was a great mistake to let him eat the first 
quail I shot over him. He evidently thought eating 
the bird was the best part of the program. 
‘‘Old Dreary’’ got so he wouldn’t leave quail for deer 
when quail hunting, but if he smelled a wildcat, the 
