A NIGHT IN A TUB 



AIR goot, mein friend, 

 zen I shall zee you at 

 mine little place on ze 

 lake shore at five o'clock 

 dis evening," said Max 

 Burg, a magnificent 

 specimen of the Teu- 

 tonic race, who stood six 

 feet three in his stock- 

 ings, and who, like 

 many of his countrymen, 

 was a keen sportsman 

 and a ratthng good shot to boot. 



It was late autumn — November, if I remember rightly 

 — and I had arranged to spend a night, or rather an early 

 morning's duck-shooting on one of the many lagoons 

 formed by the sand-bars and shallows of Lake Ontario. 

 A couple of hours' drive from the city of Toronto took 

 me to Max Burg's rose-wreathed, rough-cast bungalow, 

 which stood in the midst of a plantation of beautiful 

 spruce pine-trees, and at no great distance from the 

 lake shore. 



My genial host, arrayed in his fowUng-kit of stout 

 grey flannel, cap, and high leather tuck-boots, having 

 lent a hand in racking down my trotting mare, led me 

 51 



