With Gun ^ Rod in Canada 



as a tail fly, and I had caught all my fish upon that. He 

 was using tiny, dark-coloured midget flies, which evi- 

 dently the big trout would not deign to notice. 



Joe had everything fixed comfortably for the night 

 and supper nearly ready when we joined him. In 

 addition to the food already in preparation, we cleaned, 

 cooked, and ate eleven of the trout. 



The usual story-telling contest started directly after 

 supper. First Walter told a story. It was good. Joe 

 and I had a good, hearty laugh over it. Then Joe told 

 one, and Walter and I laughed. Then I told one, and 

 Joe and Walter laughed. Then Walter told another, 

 and I began to laugh, when Joe interrupted by starting 

 to tell one himself. Making a violent effort to readjust 

 my sense of humour to appreciate Joe's new effort, I was 

 just about to demonstrate by the usual risibilities, when 

 Walter butted in with another. With his climax hardly 

 reached, Joe began a new tale, while Walter waited 

 impatiently on his toes, as it were, to launch his next 

 side-splitter. Without waiting for ■ a laugh, Joe told 

 one, then Walter, then Joe, ad infifiitum. With a view 

 toward saving motions in labour, my face adopted a 

 frozen grin. Finally I called a halt. 



" Hold on, boys ! There's a new rule in this camp. 

 Hereafter and from now on and forevermore, and as 

 long as this trip lasts, there must be an interim between 

 stories of at least one minute to give the audience a 

 chance to laugh." 



This remark brought them both up with a round turn. 

 They looked crestfallen. They were so enthralled and 

 intoxicated with their own prowess as raconteurs that it 

 took quite an appreciable time for them to come to a 

 realization of the absurdity of the situation. Walter 

 intimated that I was envious of their remarkable ability. 

 Joe's excuse was that Walter was the first " sport " 



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