MY EIRST ELK. 



Theee used to be always hanging about tbe Englisb 

 bar in Sacramento-street, San Francisco, an extra- 

 ordinary-looking individual, who I daresay will be easily 

 recognised by the following description. He was a tall 

 thin man, with long black greasy ringlets hanging down 

 his back, and an excessively dirty face ; he was always 

 clad in an old suit of fringed buckskin, and wore 

 mocassins, on the strength of which he dubbed himself 

 " Hunter Bill,^' though I must confess he was usually 

 known among his immediate circle as " Gassy Bill '' or 

 '^Bummer Billy/' When I first arrived fresh from 

 England, full of Mayne Reid and the lamented Feni- 

 more, this remarkable-looking fellow appeared the em- 

 bodiment of all the scalp hunters of the former, and the 

 nature's children of the latter novelist. But in him 

 I was deceived; despite all his wonderful tales about 

 " bars,'' elk, bighorn, and almost every animal from 

 elephants to ground squirrels, I found out that the only 

 bear he had ever interviewed was the one at Wood- 

 ward's Gardens, and all the rest in the same proportion. 

 I positively hired this man for a whole fortnight once. 

 We, or rather I, got as far as San Jose I think, on our 

 way south ; but here the gaseous William struck a 

 new claim in the shape of a saloon keeper he knew, 

 and I left him under the influence of chain lightning- 

 whisky and old rye. After that I was much more 

 careful ; but " professional hunters " have had many a 



