126 
It is entitled ‘Neurotic Lesions of Sports- 
men,’ and is in 3 parts. The first treats 
generally of hygiene from a sporting stand- 
point. It advocates daily cold _ tubbing, 
deep inhalations and avoidance of stimu- 
lants. The next is devoted to blinking, 
wincing, and other manifestations of gun- 
shyness in man. The last discusses hyster- 
ical superexaltation following a successful 
shot.” 
“T presume,” I said, “you write also for 
American publications.” 
“Well,” he returned, “not often. You see, 
English periodicals accept work only from 
acknowledged authorities; and the disgust- 
ing blue pencil habit is not prevalent there. 
I once sent a brief article of 14,000 words 
to the leading magazine in this country de- 
voted to sport. I mention no names, but it 
is published, I think, on West 24th Street. 
My contribution was on “The more remote 
toxic effects of the copper patch on the 
vaso-motor nerves of the moose.’ You will 
scarcely credit it, but my article appeared 
in print as an item of 247 words; and some 
of those were abbreviated !” 
I murmured inarticulate sympathy. Then, 
after waiting for his emotion to subside, I 
ventured : 
“You have a cosy den. I suppose you 
keep your trophies elsewhere, not caring to 
wager them on the efficiency of our fire 
department.” 
“Eh—yes,” said Murtagoyd, “that is it. 
By the way, this is a charming day; take 
one of my guns and we will go shoot 
something.” 
“Why, really,’ I answered, “I know of 
nothing to shoot now except chucks.” 
“Then we will shoot chucks,” he cried. 
“Take that Krag on the farther rack and 
come along.” 
“I’m a little shy of heavy artillery,” I 
replied, “but I will watch you shoot.” 
“All right; but wait a moment,” and he 
touched a bell. “Maggie,” he said, when 
the girl appeared,. “tea, ice, and lemons,” 
Jack: 
gown, Helen! 
Helen: 
This old thing! 
I can see my face in it. 
RECREATION. 
and. turning to me, “Let me offer you 
Some Russian tea; it’s the only drink for a 
sportsman.” 
“It’s too arctic for me,” I rejoined. “If 
you have anything from the temperate 
zone, say Scotch——” 
“My dear boy, I dare not give you such 
a nerve-racking concoction; at least, not 
until we return.” 
When the tea came, Murtagoyd drank 
one glass, then another. 
“I’m in fine fettle to-day,” he said, “I 
think I may venture on a third.” 
After he had consulted the thermometer 
and the barometer, we left the house, he 
carrying a Savage, and I, the field glass. 
We traversed a number of fields without 
finding game. At length, while peeping 
over a stone wall, I saw a woodchuck sit- 
ting on the little mound in front of his 
burrow, and pointed it out to my com- 
panion. He crouched behind the wall for 
some time, evidently calculating the dis- 
tance. Then“ he looked at his’ watch, 
glanced at the sun, wet a finger and held 
it up to test the wind. All this while the 
quarry sat bolt upright. Murtagoyd took 
off his coat, laid it on the wall, and rested 
his rifle on it. 
“T shall aim at the point of its shoulder,” 
he announced. “Watch the effect through 
the glass.” 
Then he took a long breath, a still longer 
aim, and fired. Whether it was my ima- 
gination or was due to a flaw in the glass, 
I don’t know, but I thought I saw the 
chuck wink at me. Anyway, with a deris- 
ive flourish of his narrative, he dived into 
the hole. I considerately kept my eyes 
averted from my companion. 
“My calculations were absolutely cor- 
rect,” I heard him mutter. “That brute’s 
name would have been Dennis, but for a 
spasmodic constriction of the muscles of 
my right eye. I must limit myself to 2 cups 
of tea.” 
That’s a mighty good looking 
It’s so shiny 
“That’s probably why it’s so good look- 
ing.” —Exchange. 
