The Quail 59 



resembled the writer. He couldn't shoot worth 

 sour apples, but he occasionally carried a gun. 

 One day he tried to borrow the writer's favorite 

 dog. A prompt refusal was the first impulse ; but 

 a brilliant idea prevented what would have been 

 a mistake. The dog was loaned ; the man had 

 about an hour's featherless shooting ; but when he 

 returned he was enthusiastic over the hosts of 

 birds he had seen. He had a peculiar pair of 

 extra long leggins, and these the writer borrowed 

 for next day, partly to get square for the loan of 

 the dog, and partly to help out a nefarious scheme. 

 In those days smokeless powder was a novelty; 

 but the writer had seventy-five shells loaded with 

 it. 



When I started afield, conspicuous leggins and 

 all, and with the identical dog, I bore no slight 

 resemblance to the other fellow. The farmer, I 

 knew, would be working in a certain field, so I 

 decided to give him a friendly hail from the road, 

 which meant a pretty safe distance. The farmer 

 shouted back: "Hello! Back agin, hey? — all 

 right ! " Then, indeed, was there fast footing to 

 that thicket, and a rapid fire action of the hottest 

 kind. The new shells were discreetly silent, and 

 the chastened, holy joy of the scheme made the 

 gun strangely accurate. 



I guessed the farmer didn't understand the 

 intricacies of a modern shooting coat, so, with 



