SOME AQUATIC QUAIL 
dogs were a bit jealous over work of the 
sort. Don made for the nearest bird, and in 
a few moments he was floating alongside the 
canoe and looking not unlike a monstrous 
white bull-frog. As the hand went down, 
he at once released his bird, then turned for 
dry land. Snoring and snorting came Jess. 
She had managed to get a trifle of water 
into her throat, and, furthermore, she was 
bound to attempt the forbidden thing, 2.e., 
climbing into the canoe, in order that she 
might properly deliver the bird and receive 
the vastly valued head-patting, which to her 
counts as much as does a dollar to an ordi- 
narily decent beggar. But alas! “Get out 
you—give it up!” was all the thanks she 
got, so, grief-stricken from stem to stern, 
she surrendered her prize and ploughed 
shoreward to, if possible, get the better of 
that cunning rascal, Don. 
The shooting that followed was both 
peculiar and intensely interesting, likewise 
extremely difficult. Only those who have 
tried it can understand the job a man tackles 
when he undertakes to kneel in a canoe and 
score whizzing crossing-shots on birds that 
have got under full speed before the gun has 
a chance to get on them. But I had a noble 
assistant astern, while much practice at 
waterfowl had taught wisdom in regard to 
the canoe. Hence, I did not altogether 
disgrace myself, although I am free to con- 
fess that about one bird in every three 
hummed across in temporary safety. But, 
after all, we certainly had ’em where the 
short hairs grow, for a missed bird could be 
flushed again and again, if necessary. 
For perhaps an hour we worked up and 
down, My Lady paddling, the Party in the 
Bow shooting and the dogs hustling birds 
out of the brush and swimming for such as 
fell. They paid me great compliments, did 
those dogs, for every time the gun sounded 
215 
they both would plunge in with a superb 
confidence that almost made me blush at 
times. 
But the best of sport has its limits. It 
was first doubles, then singles, then long, 
anxious searching for an occasional chance, 
and finally that silence which proclaims the 
end of the game. We had birds enough, 
however, a bit wet and drabbled, to be sure, 
but good, honest, full-grown quail for a’ 
that. And then came My Lady’s reward. 
She likes shooting well enough, as she can 
both appreciate and understand good, clean 
work with the gun, but what she most loves 
is the restful after-lounging, when His Nibbs 
gets busy with a wee fire, when a couple of 
plump birds are artistically browned, when 
the lunch is spread and the gem-jar of tea is 
resurrected from its cool and watery burial- 
place. 
We did things to the lunch, to the tea and 
to everything that was ours, then cushions 
were piled fo’rard in the canoe, and My 
Lady, stretched at ease, took her well- 
earned rest. Silent, ghost-like, we slipped 
down the darkening river, the owls hailing 
from either bank, the staunch craft purling 
encouragement to the bending paddle: for 
the Old Man was working the ash breeze © 
now, and things had to happen or we’d be 
late for supper. 
In the perfumed dusk of a flawless au- 
tumn evening we reached the small float 
before the canoe’s private residence. My 
Lady arose, to complain of the homeward 
journey’s ending so soon. Don and Jess 
leaped ashore and capered about in a 
fashion suggestive of keen anticipation of a 
good, square meal, while the Boss of the 
Outfit picked up his gun and the goodly 
bunch of aquatic quail and remarked, 
“They’re a mighty nice lot, and they’re 
almost dry at that!” 

