I 



JACK-SHOOTING IN A FOGGY NIGHT. 175 



Inlet, on the Eacquette, as lie stood with his nose 

 stuck into the air and blowing away like an ani- 

 mated trumpet. It was just seventeen rods from 

 the bow of the little shell I stood in, and the lead 

 went in at one ear and came out of the other. 



So much for jack-shooting and my jack. I 

 have been thus minute in my description, because 

 I thought it might assist my brother sportsmen 

 to enjoy what I regard the most exciting of aU 

 sport, — deer-shooting at night. I take this way 

 also of answering the many letters of inquiry con- 

 cerning my jack recently addressed me by gentle- 

 men who have heard of my invention from the 

 guides, and who would like to avail themselves of 

 it. It is rather expensive, but a sure thing, if 

 well made. 



Well, to return to my narration. I was driving 

 the ball into the right barrel of my rifle when I 

 heard the soft dip of a paddle abreast of the camp, 

 and in a moment Martin stepped up the bank and 

 entered, paddle in hand, the circle of the firelight. 

 Many who read this may remember Martin, brother 

 to him of the Lower Saranac House ; but for the 

 sake of others, who have never seen him, I will give 

 a sketch of him. I recall him perfectly as he 

 stood leaning on his paddle in my camp that night. 

 A tall, sinewy man he was, in height some six feet 

 two, in weight turning perhaps one hundred and 

 seventy pounds^ — every ounce of superfluous flesh 



