262 Sporting Sketches 



shooting. With the shotgun he could do little 

 he wouldn't try it, for he hated that weapon with all 

 the unreasonable pertinacity of the old school of 

 still-hunters. 



" Them durn noisy things won't kill nuthin' ! " 

 was his contemptuous remark the first time he saw 

 my expensive fourteen-gauge muzzle-loader. 



This was the kind of man I had undertaken to 

 thaw out, and my scheming for two months had 

 affected his bearing about as much as a New York 

 bonfire would affect the Polar ice-cap. He once 

 had so far relented as to say to a friend of mine : 

 " Canady's a slick-spoken feller 'bout huntin', an' a 

 mannersome feller, too ; but I reckon it's all book 

 larnin' an' don't amount to much ennyhow. I'd like 

 to see Canady run foul of a bear his durn slick talk 

 wouldn't help him enny, an' I reckon his shootin' 'd 

 be about level with his talk." 



Beyond this unsatisfactory state of mind he had 

 showed no symptoms of ever advancing, when the 

 first of three events, which marked three stages of 

 what finally became a warm friendship, occurred. 



The lounging-place of the village was, of course, 

 the saloon. It had a long room with a bar across 

 one end, a pool table in the centre, and a dozen 

 rough chairs strung along the walls. The pool table 

 happened to be a new one, and at that time I was 

 supposed to be a good player. 



One evening I strolled down to the saloon and 

 found Lewis and half-a-dozen of the regular hang- 

 ers-on sitting swapping yarns and possibly (?) wait- 

 ing for somebody to stand treat. -J filled the long-felt 

 want, then I picked up a cue, and began knocking 



