THE TRUE STORY OF DADDY KINKS. 



ERNEST T. SETUN. 



Poor old Daddy Binks kept a corner 

 grocery in a back street of Portcoma, in the 

 State of Washegon. As a boy 40 

 years ago in Pennsyland he had 

 been fond of an occasional shoot, 

 and once or twice after he went 

 West he had had a lovely time, killing 6 

 ringtail pigeons with his own hands, on 

 the most glorious of these occasions. That 

 was the crowning exploit of his life. But 

 alas ! it was 35 years ago, and never once 

 from that day to this had his lot been 

 anywhere but among the grocery boxes, 

 working from dawn till nearly midnight 

 to do his duty by his family. An appar- 

 ently interminable task, for the family 

 didn't seem to know when to stop coming, 

 and had already transgressed the tradi- 

 tional limit of the baker's dozen. 



But Daddy Binks was a cheerful soul. 

 He stuck to his job, and buoyed his spirits 

 continually with promise of a day's shoot- 

 ing some time. This long deferred hope 

 grew first into the daring ambition of his 

 life; then, after years of waiting, it be- 

 came too good to be true, and was glorified 

 into an iridescent but impossible dream of 

 Paradise. Sometimes in the 5 minutes 

 smoking time that Daddy allowed himself 

 after dinner, he would indulge in a little 

 day dream and see himself out again with 

 a gun, a real shooting gun! as when a free, 

 wild boy. Sometimes he went a little far- 

 ther and pictured himself proudly arriving 

 home with 6 or even 7 ringtail pigeons in 

 his hand, while all the neighbors would 

 crowd around and hooray and join in his 

 triumph ; for everybody without exception 

 loved dear, harmless old Daddy Binks. 



F° r 35 years he had been in this hopeful 

 state of mind, when an unexpected, an 

 almost impossible, combine of good luck 

 not only put it in his power to go hunting 

 but actually forced it on him. 



At first the idea of really going was 

 something of a shock; but when he saw 

 the gun his friend loaned him and pored 

 over the map of the duck grounds his en- 

 thusiasm soon reached the old time fever 

 heat. 



All in due course he reached the 

 grounds. Again luck was with him. He 

 came on a wonderful flight of mallards, 

 and Daddy blazed and blazed. The ducks 

 kept falling, falling, and Daddy grew 

 younger with every shot till he got away 

 back long before the years of discretion, 

 and in a perfect delirium of joy. Oh, the 



ecstacy of that day! Seventy big fat mal- 

 lards, when a ringtail pigeon would 

 have set his cup a-brimming ! 



Oh, the glory of that return home, that 

 march up the main street of Portcoma, 

 with all the neighbors rejoicing in his joy! 

 Caesar? Alexander? Dewey? Pah! not for 

 a moment ! They never had such a draft 

 of unmitigated happiness. It would be 

 his last, probably, but what of that ! Here 

 was enough for a lifetime. 



Next morning the Portcoma Blaatter 

 came out with full particulars and old 

 Daddy began positively to swell and feel 

 himself an important member of the com- 

 munity. Within the next day or 2 he was 

 posing as an authority on ducking and 

 recommending this gun, that powder and 

 such a boat with the air of an expert. In 

 each case, of course, it was the article he 

 had used on his one duck hunt. 



It is wonderful how the fame of the 

 great spreads. One morning there came 

 to Daddy Binks' grocery store a letter 

 from a great editor, 4,000 miles away. It 

 was a polite, almost deferential, note, stat- 

 ing that according to the Portcoma Blaat- 

 ter he, Mr. Binks, had on such a day killed 

 70 mallards with his own gun. Was it 

 true. ? 



Daddy swelled with pride to see how 

 his fame had rolled from ocean to ocean. 

 He at once wrote the editor a full account 

 on the back of an old invoice. It was not 

 only true, it was less than the truth, for 

 5 more mallards had been winged and were 

 subsequently secured! (They were really 

 contributed by deceitful friends, who 

 wished to swell Daddy's bag and happi- 

 ness, so the old groceryman could claim a 

 one day bag of 75 mallards.) A record 

 surely ! 



For one short month his joy was com- 

 plete. Then there came to his happy home 

 a marked copy of a great sportsmen's mag- 

 azine and Daddy's eye soon lit on this 

 item : 



THAT NOTORIOUS PORTCOMA GAME HOG. 



D. Binks, the notorious game hog, has 

 outraged the feelings of every decent 

 citizen by a shameful slaughter of ducks. 

 He not only admits, but brags, of having 

 killed 75 mallards in one day. 



Poor, harmless, old Daddy Binks ! Sev- 

 enty-five ducks in 35 years ; 2 ducks per 

 annum ! He was dumbfounded by the ex- 



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