ON A FURLOUGH AFTER BOB WHITE 
THE ARMISTICE WAS ALL RIGHT IN ITS WAY BUT THE MUCH MORE IMPORTANT 
OPENING DAY FOR QUAIL IN SOUTH JERSEY OCCURRED ABOUT THE SAME TIME 
By LIEUT. WARREN H. MILLER. U. S. N. R. 
T he first thing I did after the 
Armistice whistle was to sand-bag 
the Admiral and grab a furlough 
off his unconscious body. Why this un- 
seemly haste, instead of waiting to wrap 
up and put neatly away the pieces of the 
War? Because, while the Armistice 
was all right in its way, the much more 
important Opening Day occurred on 
November 10th, and it was all aboard for 
those who were going quail shooting in 
South Jersey, or stay at home forever. 
The car was waiting; so were the 
quail ; so were my fellow ruffians, who, it 
being a fine day, were spoiling to go out 
and kill something. The car left Inter- 
laken on the morning of the 12th. and 
sped southward, while tents, duffle bags, 
dogs and guns rattled and shook in the 
tonneau. The dramatis personae of this 
expedition may here be sketched briefly: 
■ — Herman Beringer owned the Ford, so 
we will put him first, (so as to wing in 
on it next time). He is known as the 
Rabbit Scourge of South Jersey, or “The 
Scourge,” for short, and, without his ad- 
vertisements for lost dogs in the fall, a 
certain newspaper would have to suspend 
circulation. The next ruffian on the list 
is Frank Stick, the painter fellow, who 
rejoices in the alias, F. Stick. And 
finally there is Cap, the “Loot,” otherwise 
known as The Bearded Lady. This latter 
name comes out on him about the second 
day at sea, and sticks and grows longer 
and more camoufiagy .with each rising of 
the sun, for he refrains from touching a 
razor while on the war path. 
We started with two dogs, a beagle 
named Field, and a pointer, Mike, for 
we had a roving commission on rabbits, 
ducks and quail, and proposed to get in 
a smash at all three if possible. The 
duck idea went glimmering at Mana- 
hawken, where we found the bayman 
very morose and blue over the poor sea- 
son, the aviators having scared all the 
ducks out of the bay. The Ford rambled 
on to West Creek, where we got out the 
tent and camped for the night. Field 
was turned adrift next morning, but with 
the exception of an old settled swamp 
rabbit, who kept ahead of him and at the 
same time out of our reach, he did not do 
much in the rabbit line. We saw rio end 
of fox sign in that swamp, and concluded 
that they need thinning out if the rabbit 
crop is to thrive. So we packed up the 
outfit and started the car on its way 
again. Here Mike showed what he was 
in the world for, as he picked up a bevy 
of -quail right on the edge of the road. 
The car disgorged itself in double time, 
leaving Field yelping on the back seat. 
A bevy of about fifteen rose as we crept 
up on them, and two birds dropped. As 
they went into a cloud of catbriers, and 
our anchor was aweigh and steam up, we 
did not follow them. 
Breezing down the road, we soon came 
to the real quail country, farm lands 
around Tuckerton and points west, and 
in due time we turned up a country lane 
that led to Nowhere. NowheTe had one 
inhabitant and twenty empty houses — a 
fine, brisk proposition for a real estate 
man, — ^but it was great quail country! I 
have hunted for the last six seasons in 
the South, traveling 700 miles to get no 
better shooting than we had right there. 
No where produced one bevy of thirty 
quail at a crack — ^but more of that anon — 
suffice to say that South Carolina only 
once did better, and that was at Gadsden 
where a rumble-bumble of fifty of them 
once got up out of bed, heaving their 
blankets to the moon, and leaving six 
guns standing open-mouthed, too as- 
tonished to shoot. 
W E came to a deserted chicken farm, 
cleaned out its old pump house, 
set up the camp stove and made 
ourselves comfortable. There were quail 
roosts all through the old wire fence 
chicken runs, now grown up with weeds 
and briers, and a rabbit dashed out from 
under an outhouse with Field one jump 
behind him and Mike scratching gravel 
just a tail-length behind him. The 
Scourge took off the head of the proces- 
sion with a ready snap, and bowled him 
over and over in our front yard, 
and, when the dogs had had their say 
A nice bunch of birds 
about it, there was Supper, all dressed 
and ready to hurl into the fry pan. 
But we wanted Q-u-a-i-1, and so 
grabbed up our musketry and fanned out 
across the fields. A circuit around three 
of them developed nothing but a pheas- 
ant, which whirred up out of a lumber 
slashing, spanked along with a charge of 
6’s from the Scourge’s weapon, , 
Then, as dusk came on and we plodded 
home, Mike found them! Right on the 
rise of the hill, behind the chicken run, 
he froze, and we drew up, stepping light. 
Then, like the explosion of a feathered 
bombshell, the covey burst for the woods, 
and six barrels flashed out through the 
twilight. It was a small bevy of ten, apd 
Mike, now circling on his hind legs, now 
standing on his head snuffing in the 
grass, found and brought us three. We 
pursued into the woods, but it was long' 
after dark when we heard them whistling 
together again. 
Frank soon had a saute of rabbit, a; 
mess of spuds, a pot of tea and a can of( 
peas bubbling on the stove, while in the' 
oven a couple of dozen biscuits were 
rising. Man’s chow, it was, and we fell 
all over it by the light of a couple of 
candle lanterns hanging in the little 
pump house. 
After pipes were going, came a knock 
at the door, and we had a visitor — The^ 
Inhabitant. A right merry fellow was he, 
with stocky frame and laughing brown 
eyes; and with him was a setter, bred in 
the purple. 
“Birdin,’ boys?” he asked, after the 
usual preliminaries. 
“No,” grinned F. Stick. “We’re lookin’ 
for a dear old lady with poor health and 
a good life insurance policy.” 
“Well, I got her!” came back the In- 
habitant, whose name was Jeff. “She 
ain’t been out’n her house in six years, 
and there’s a fine bevy of birds right 
in her front yard — ” 
“Wow!” chorused the crowd, “Lead us 
right there, stranger ! Never mind the in- 
surance policy, — show us the birds!” 
“Maybe she’ll need it, before you get 
through shobtin’ up the place,” observed 
the visitor, “but I’ll take you there tomor- 
row, — and anywhere else you want to go. 
Birdin ’s my long suit; I generally rake in 
about forty birds a week in this season.” 
That wasn’t bad for one gun, in South 
Jersey, so we hired him and his setter, 
then and there. 
“What’s the matter with this place, 
Jeff?” enquired Cap, “seems to have 
stmck a blight, or potato rot, or some- 
thing.” 
“Wa’al, this used to be a fine neighbor- 
hood,” reminisced Jeff, “Best clammin’; 
best duckin’, and best birdin’ in the state; 
but the politicians hogged all the clam 
an’ oyster beds, an’ the boys moved out. 
Me and that ol’ lady’s all that’s left. The 
last man had this-yer chicken farm. His 
