ENROUTE TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 



I, my dear sir, are — there, steward, clear away 

 and bring me fish." It may safely be assumed, 

 from my behavior on this boat, that I was not 

 the "my dear sir" referred to by the captain (as 

 I didn't remain that long), nor the designer of 

 this yarn, either. 



All next day I lay in my berth — not well 

 enough to eat, and not quite sick enough to die. 

 The members of our party were all better sailors 

 than I, for I don't believe one of them took sick. 

 I was just a little sorry, too, that some of the 

 boys couldn't experience one of those fulsome 

 uproars that I felt, if only by way of diversion. 

 It helped my feelings a little, however, when they 

 informed me that the dining room had very few 

 patrons that day. 



On August 7th, at 10 a. m., after something 

 like six days on the boat from Seattle, we landed 

 at Cordova. I stood on deck watching the spec- 

 tators at the dock, all curiously scrutinizing the 

 passengers, as we were being pulled up to the 

 pier. The Home Guards, composed of a score of 

 stalwart, splendid, manly specimens, stood on 

 the wharf to salute the Governor. 



The man standing next to me touched my 

 elbow. "Do you see that large man, the third 

 from the end in the Guards' line?" said he. 

 "Well, that's Dr. Council, the greatest bear 

 hunter in Alaska. I'll introduce you to him 

 when we debark." 



And he did, with the result that all our party 



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