IX. 



JACK-SHOOTING IN A FOGGY NIGHT. 



WE were camping on Constable Point, John 

 and I, in the summer of 1868, when the 

 following experience befell me. I tell it because 

 it represents one phase of Adirondack life, and be- 

 cause it will enable me to enjoy over again one 

 of the most ludicrous and laughable adventures 

 which ever assisted digestion. 



It was the 8th of July, and a party of Saranac 

 guides, consisting of Jim McClellan, Stephen Mar- 

 tin, and a nephew of his, also a Canadian, name 

 unknown, at least unpronounceable by me, had 

 come up from the Lower Saranac, and were going 

 through to Brown's Tract for a party of German 

 gentlemen (and gentlemen in the best sense of the 

 word we afterward found them to be), who had ar- 

 ranged the year before to camp on the Eacquette for 

 a while. The guides were instructed to select and 

 build a camp as they came through, and then, 

 leaving one of their number to keep it, to come 

 after the party, who were to await them at Ar- 

 nold's. The spot the guides selected was only some 

 twenty rods to the north of us, and there they 



