Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 17. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
Talk of an Old-Timer- III 
OU people all seem expecting trouble. 
What is the matter?” asked the writer 
on returning to the schooner Amelia 
that February afternoon, and noting the feeling 
of uneasiness that prevailed. 
“Things look badly,” responded the poli¬ 
tician. ‘‘It is either run or fight. Do you see that 
catboat ashore half a mile to the east? There 
are two bad men aboard her; said to be man 
killers—cattle rustlers—decoy stealers; in fact, 
regular human alligators. They have announced 
they came here to clean up the lake, particularly 
our part of it. What do you think? Can we 
stand for them?” 
“Think,” replied the Old-Timer, “not much 
one. way or the other. I am a little lame and 
not good at a foot race; besides, there are only 
two of them and four of us, not counting cap¬ 
tain, cook and crew. No running in mine.” 
“Told you so. Told you the old man would 
stick,” almost shouted the Captain, who con¬ 
tinued the oiling of his heavy rifle. 
“You haven’t heard all,” added the politician. 
“They have joined the Bailey gang.” 
“Who cares for that,” the Captain inter¬ 
rupted. “Bud and his brother Clint are with 
us.” 
By EDWARD T. MARTIN 
“Never mind the catboat and the Baileys,” 
the writer replied. “Let's talk about something 
interesting. Cook, how nearly ready is dinner?” 
A laugh broke up the discussion and afterward 
no one heard anything about going. 
Next day was a quiet one. The catboat 
men, who claimed to be brothers and said their 
name was Johnson, hung around Bailey’s shanty, 
drinking, shouting and makiig threats, but didn’t 
venture on the lake. 
That night Bud came aboard. “Things look 
kind of ticklish,” he said. “Those fellows shot 
a man over Morgan's Point way and are look¬ 
ing for trouble here. Bailey does not care a 
whole lot for them; likes their whisky, that is 
all; so they can’t count much on. him. My 
brother and I are with you. We won’t go after 
ducks to-morrow, but will watch on that high 
knoll yonder and if trouble comes, both of us 
will be on hand to help.” 
“Comforting fellow that,” remarked the 
politician after Bud had gone. 
“Rings true, though,” answered another of 
the Happy Four. 
“Yes,” said the Captain, “and he will help 
as he says; you can depend on that.” 
The shooters started next morning, as 
usual, so as to be in their blind by sunrise. It 
was a warm, clear day, unfavorable for sport 
and but few ducks were moving. Everybody, 
except the writer, returned early, lie decided 
to go “jay hawking,” working around the edges 
of the cane and jumping ducks that were sun¬ 
ning themselves. It was astonishing, when go¬ 
ing with the wind, how closely the skiff could 
approach a single duck, or perhaps a pair, and 
no matter how light the breeze, a canvas would 
always rise against it, come a yard or two 
closer and when turning away, give a good side 
shot; a slow, easy shot, for it would take some 
little time for him to get full headway. Then 
when the wind was wrong, it was often possible 
to cut the birds off from where they wished to 
go, and have them swing within, easy range. If 
there was a bunch of ducks feeding half a mile 
out, it could be figured to a nicety, just the 
course an inshore canvas would take when 
jumped. 
A “jay hawk” once around the lake was 
worth from ten to twenty good birds and pos¬ 
sibly one or two cripples which, if freshly made, 
would pass muster all right. A trip of this kind 
was .never undertaken if there was any flight, 
and then only by an expert. 
‘MANY BIRDS WERE FLYING NORTH.” 
