33% A Golden Opportunity 



ward. We were both heavily laden, and pounds 

 of mud clung to our waders. When finally easier 

 going was reached, we waded into a ditch and 

 got rid of the mud. For a mile the walking was 

 easier, but I was fast curling up when the sight 

 of the house spurred me to a desperate effort. 



" I say, them long shanks had enough — I 

 sa-ay — they had enough?" queried Joe, as we 

 reached his gate. His face was gray with weari- 

 ness, but the sharp little eyes twinkled defiantly. 

 Needless to say " them long shanks " had had 

 more than enough — in fact, we both fell sound 

 asleep in our chairs before supper could be pre- 

 pared. If Arthur of sainted memory had a harder 

 job in winning his spurs, I can readily understand 

 why he died so long ago ! 



It has been my fate to hunt with three extraor- 

 dinary men of the same name : Joe, the Indian, 

 or rather " breed," of ptarmigan fame ; that other 

 Joe, of the turkey tracking; and this one. Three 

 better men in their respective lines never tramped 

 from dawn till dusk, and if there be dim trails in 

 the Happy Hunting Grounds, there will be Joes 

 to the fore, for these were men among men. 



But to return to my early visit and its object. 

 Of course, it was shooting. Joe had reached 

 town by gray dawn, had disposed of a load of 

 produce, and was ready to go home. He was: a* 

 bit impatient, toa, which was a good- sign ; but he 



