Small Game Shooting 275 



as the dorsal fin of a mackerel, between the gluteal 



muscles. Z , when questioned, would assure 



the native sons of the golden West, that in Eng- 

 land, where the sun never shines, all horses, even 

 hunters, were so trained to carry umbrellas — and 

 many believed him ! The story has an apocryphal 



twang, but it is true. With Z as mounted 



escort, A ■ and I would drive to the shore in a 



roomy spring-waggon that held ourselves, our dogs, 

 our ammunition, and a generous luncheon. Upon 

 the beach were clams, big, juicy clams, good when 

 fried, better still in chowder, and best of all baked 

 in fragrant sea- weed ; but we were faithful, I re- 

 member, to sardines, potted meats, foie-gras, cheese, 

 and marmalade ; and we drank freely of a wonder- 

 ful brown sherry, the pure juice of the Calif ornian 

 grape ; and we told the old, old stories of the birds 

 we had just missed. We missed about three out 

 of four shots. Often a stranger would join us, 

 generally a pot-hunter, a ground sluicer, whom we 

 held in contempt and derision (doubtless he thought 

 us extravagant maniacs), and also in fear, justly 

 considering the condition of his ancient ram-and- 



dam gun. As a rule, A would dismiss the 



stranger with words as sweetly seductive as the 

 brown sherry. Sometimes we would encourage 

 the unwelcome guest to lie. Once we met a youth 

 who swore, by Jing ! that he never shot quail ex- 

 cept on the wing. 



" Are you a good shot ? " demanded A . 



" I ain't an expert — yet," replied the youth 

 modestly. "But I pack home as many quails as 

 most. Yes, sir, I do purty well far a beginner, 



