200 
between them, Lew proposed, in a careless 
way, to strike over to ‘‘ Woodbury’s.”’ 
‘““Which way ?’’? was Winters’s response, 
and on getting their bearings he at once 
resumed the lead. Their way was over 
much plowed ground and through dense 
cornfields, and now, to Lew’s excited 
imagination, Winters seemed to be playing 
with him. It was nine miles and better to 
Woodbury’s place, and Winters set a fear- 
some pace. He skimmed along like a kildee 
over a dry pasture and his feet hardly 
appeared to touch the ground at all. 
Once or twice he turned around as if 
waiting for Lew, and this added gall to 
the big man’s sufferings. For the first time 
in his life he was beginning to get tired him- 
self. It was a most humiliating thought. 
He had usually killed off all of his former 
companions before noon and now it was 
after two o’clock and he was beginning to 
wish Winters in Jericho. Yet he stuck 
doggedly to the walking, and his birds felt 
each one of them like a load of bricks on 
his shoulders. 
They went into Woodbury’s corn and 
covered every foot of it without raising a 
bird. If anything was needed to put the 
finishing touches to Lew’s fatigue, this was 
it. Nothing is quite so tiresome as hard 
walking and no shooting. It is the hunter’s 
hardest test. Lew wilted under it. Winters 
had unfeelingly eaten his dinner as he 
walked, and Lew had followed suit because 
he did not want to be the one to suggest a 
wait and a rest after his reputation as a 
“‘man-killer”’ had been so talked about. 
At five o’clock they were eight miles from 
home. A farmer drove by as they crossed 
a road, and, after “‘helloing” to Lew, told 
them of a bunch of chickens that used in 
the stubbles on his father’s farm. 
‘“‘Hain’t nobody been in ’em,” he said 
encouragingly. “‘Better git at ’em, Lew, 
‘fore they git shot up.”” He drove away. 
“Come on, old man,’ Winters said 
cheerily. Lew Chapin climbed wearily to 
the top rail of a “pair of bars,” and let his 
gun down on the side of the road. He then 
took off his hunting coat, heavy with 
prairie fowl, and looked at Winters. 
““Not me,” he said. ‘‘Here I stay till Pap 
comes with the cart. I’m played out. 
You’ve walked me to a standstill, Mr. 
RECREATION 
Winters, and I’m dogged if you ain’t the 
only man ’at ever done it. You go ahead 
after them chickens. There’s the wind-mill 
over there, you kain’t miss the stubble, it’s 
just this side o’ the mill. And the next road 
takes you plumb to our place. Tell Pap 
when you git there to hitch up Jack to the 
cart an’ come an’ fetch me in. Tell him 
I’m at Nellis’s bars. He’ll know. Yes, sir, 
I’m what they calla busted phernomernon. 
I aint no reel walker, I’m just a hayseed 
plug, and my wind’s give out.” 
He drew a square of tobacco out of his 
pocket and bit off a quarter-section of it. 
Winters protested, but finally did as Lew 
wanted him to. Arriving at the Chapin 
farm, just as the other party came in, and 
loaded down with chickens, his coming 
created great excitement. 
‘““Where’s Lew?” was the universal cry. 
““He’sat Nellis’s bars, and wants Mr. Cha- 
pin to bring the cart out for him.” 
‘Did he hurt himself?” asked Lew’s 
wife, anxiously. 
‘“No,” said Winters, “‘he said he was 
tired out.” Everett and McWilliams looked 
incredulously at each other. Andrews 
smiled sardonically. 
The cart was hitched and by supper time 
Lew reached home, “plumb tuckered,” as 
he expressed it. 
“You hoys certainly got me this time,” 
he remarked with a rueful grin. “ Where’s 
Winters ?” 
‘“‘He’s shaving to go to the dance with 
Eb,” said his wife. 
“’T” th’ dance! Shavin’! He’s an iron 
man,” groaned Lew, “‘a regler perpetchool 
motion cuss.” 
“Bill,” the fallen idol went on, turning 
to Andrews, “what’s your friend’s busi- 
Hesse” 
Andrews scratched a match on his 
hunting trousers and lit his pipe leisurely 
before replying. Then he said: 
‘George B. Winters is a professional six- 
days-go-as-you-please pedestrian. He also 
is the winner of five twenty-five mile cross- 
country races. He used to be a sprinter, but 
gave it up as being too hard on the system.” 
‘Poor little Lewie,” said Chapin, with a 
wan smile and rubbing his weary shins. 
‘“‘An’ that’s what you was trying to kill off 
this trip, was you?” 

