Nov. 8, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
587 
Talk of an Old-Timer 
W HEN the experiment of massing seven 
hundred and fifty decoys in a long line 
was tried that Tuesday morning, Bud 
was chosen to shoot from the west box, his 
brother Clint from the middle and the writer 
from the east one. 
What a showing those decoys made! 
Hardly a breath of air was stirring, the sur¬ 
face of the lake was smooth as glass and each 
decoy set up like “a painted ship upon a 
painted ocean.” 
“Say, old man,’” called Clint as shooters 
and tenders paddled toward the boxes, “what 
did you set such a big bunch of decoys off the 
east box for? They’re too close together any¬ 
way, and stand too big and high. Got to change 
them; a duck never would decoy to such look¬ 
ing things. Why they’re more like pelicans 
than canvasback.” 
“So’s,” Bud answered. “Quit your kicking 
and look again; more natural ain’t they?” 
Clint turned and saw the decoys that showed 
so big and stood so high, were higher yet. 
They were in the air, flying away and proved 
a flock of fifty or more small canvasback, that 
found their way into the decoys during the 
night and were making themselves much at 
home, when the approaching boats routed them 
out. 
The shooters were hardly settled in their 
boxes, before a flock of seven came across from 
the bay, headed toward them. Here was a test. 
Would the ducks work, or would they sheer off? 
If they failed to decoy, we might just as well 
pull up and go home. 
They didn’t even circle; just plumped down 
half a gun shot out from the east box. The 
writer stood up, gun at ready and called, “Good 
morning, ducks; get up and fly a little, please.” 
All they did was to crane their necks, shy' from 
a nearby decoy and swim away. 
“Get out of there!” he called again, throw¬ 
ing an old shell in their direction. 
“Why don’t you quit fooling and shoot?” 
growled Clint from the next box. “You’ll 
monkey around until they swim out of range.” 
Another shell was thrown, followed by an 
emphatic command to “Get up and get!” to 
which they paid no attention except to bunch 
more closely and to keep on swimming. When 
they were forty yards away the writer shot and 
killed all seven. 
The smoke from his gun had hardly drifted 
to leeward. when a dozen more came. They 
swung over Bud’s decoys and he killed a pair. 
The others flew a short distance, turned and 
came, so the writer took a toll of three, then 
crossed in front of Clint, who got one each with 
right and left and passed near enough to Bud, 
so he got one more. The four remaining turned 
at a single hoarse q-w-a-c-k from a caller and 
lit within thirty yards of Clint. Not a duck 
escaped. It wasn’t sport. It was murder. 
All varieties of ducks that were flying 
worked, until about ten o’clock, when the flight 
ceased entirely. As a rule, they showed no 
sign of shyness, except perhaps a knowing old 
greenhead mallard or a wary, long-neck sprig 
By EDWARD T. MARTIN 
might act as if in doubt and circle, but a note 
on the caller would settle things and bring the 
doubter in, talking for all he was worth. 
“Why,” said Bud, “they’ll almost crowd a 
fellow out of his box.” They sure enough did 
come close. 
One more day ended the trip, for when the 
catboat returned from Galveston, where it had 
taken a shipment of ducks for the North, a 
telegram came calling the writer to New Or¬ 
leans, and with him gone, the others would 
not remain. 
On all these winter trips, metal shells were 
used almost exclusively. A reserve supply of 
loaded paper shells in sealed boxes was taken 
on one of the earlier expeditions, but the damp 
sea air—and it was very damp, as the rust every 
morning on all things rustable showed—pene¬ 
trated the packages, and caused the shells to 
swell so they wouldn’t' go into the gun unless 
“peeled down”—that is, unless the outer skin 
of paper was removed, making them smaller; 
then sometimes the “peeling” would go too 
deep and the shot half break off and this part 
of the shell with its contents go away like a 
bullet. Not a helpful thing for a fine gun and 
bad for the shooter, unles his aim was very 
accurate. Twice the writer centered his bird 
and cut it in two, and many a clean miss he 
made when shells broke in this manner. 
This was many years ago, remember. Paper 
shells as now made are so nearly perfect no 
dampnes. can affect them; but they cannot—at 
that—be kept under water for twenty-four hours 
and then be used, as happened to some nickel 
shells once in the long ago. 
The writer was in his smallest boat and 
with difficulty turned to get a duck coming on 
his “port quarter”—that is, a little to one side 
of behind him. His yarn glove was wet, and 
touching cold metal, froze instantly to both 
triggers. Result, a double explosion, and his 
head struck the water before his feet; his gun 
came next, and then the shell box followed suit; 
the boat only turned bottom up. It didn’t 
sink. Those shells that remained in the box 
were recovered immediately and used to finish 
the day’s shooting. Next day, after the water 
had settled so bottom could be seen, some 
thirty more were recovered, two< examined and 
found dry inside, and the others shot with no 
noticeable difference in result between them 
and the ones freshly loaded. 
To digress a little while on the subject of 
shells. At the time of the great Chicago fire 
in 1871, many of my belongings which could 
“PROVED TO BE A FLOCK OF FIFTY OR MORE MALLARDS.” 
