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Abbott . 
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Tuchton . 
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Coyle . 
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II. Garrett . 
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C. Garrett . 
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Jones . 
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^Professional. 
EXPERTS DESCRIBE THREE KINDS OF BULLETS. 
Extent of Wound Inflicted Depends Upon Type of 
Missile Used. 
That the various bullets which have been used by 
armies of civilized nations admit of being grouped to¬ 
gether im three classes, the members of each of which 
resemble each other more or less closely in the means 
used to injure or kill an enemy, is pointed out in an 
editorial in the current number of the Medical Journal. 
One of these classes of projectiles is called the reduced 
caliber, jacketed bullet. The second class includes the 
leaden balls in shrapnel and the blunt-nosed bullet for¬ 
merly in use in the British army and subsequently used 
by the Servians. To the third class belong the ex¬ 
panding bullets, the soft-nosed bullet and the dumdum 
bullet. Some authorities speak of the first class as the 
pointed bullet. It has less stopping power than the 
other two. 
The greater part of the nations of the world use the 
ogival bullet. It is a pointed bullet, whose tip forms an 
obtuse angle like an arch. All three groups of bullets 
may be compared by their effects on bone. These 
effects are carefully described by Lagarde and by 
an Italian officer, Imbriaco. Lagarde contrasts the effects 
of bullets, as shown by X-ray pictures of fractures. 
Imbriaco, on the other hand, is occupied with a single 
problem—the effects of bullets fired at long and at 
short distances. 
Taking the latter problem first, we find, as Imbriaco 
says, that the two bullets now in use, the ogival and 
the blunt-nosed, have a rotary and a wabbling motion. 
On impact they produce a wound like that made by the 
blow of a hammer. This effect seems to be observed 
at all ranges, but particularly at 1,000 yards. Here the 
gyroscopic steadiness due to rotation is lost; the bullet 
may even turn on its axis and produce explosive effects. 
Colonel Lagarde describes an instance. The wound was 
made by the bullet of the United States magazine rifle, 
which is similar to the bullet used by the British and 
Germans. Lateral impact seems the only explanation 
of these explosive effects. 
The unstable Japanese bullet—unstable because it is 
the lightest and smallest in use—makes at 800 to 1,000 
yards perforations which are large, with explosive exits, 
and in the soft viscera a wide track, showing a great 
deal of laceration. These effects are probably the re¬ 
sult of the bullet’s course, which is a tangent to the 
curve of the trajectory. Before it takes a curve, at very 
short ranges, it has effects less severe, hut here its 
stopping power is less. In this respect it is much in¬ 
ferior to the blunt-nosed bullet. 
The action of both these types of modern bullets on the 
human body would, at first sight, seem to he the same, 
hut careful inspection of wounds during the Balkan 
War shows that wounds caused by the sharp-nosed 
German or Turkish bullet were; on the whole, more 
favorable for speedy healing than those caused by the 
blunt-nosed Servian bullet. For example, a Turk and 
a Servian were both wounded in the same bone of the 
forearm. They were advancing on each other at too 
meters. The blunt-nosed, nickel-mantled Servian bullet 
caused a terrible smashing of the bone in the case of the 
Turk, whose arm was destroyed, while the Servian got 
off with simple fracture, a clean hole through the 
radius without splintering. There is, however, a marked 
defect of the pointed bullet. The result of shaving off 
the tip and shoulder to a fine point is itr throw the 
center of gravity very far back, as we have already 
pointed out: this peculiarity tends to make the bullet 
travel on its transverse axis. This effect increases 
wounding power by increasing the area of the wound. 
It is interesting to inquire if these effects resemble 
the effects of dumdum bullets. The dumdum bullet, as 
is well known, has a jacket and a core of lead, but its 
special quality is the projection of the lead beyond the 
mantle. When it strikes an object the soft lead spreads 
out in the shape of a mushroom; hence, the bullet 
causes wounds that have great stopping powers. Pointed 
bullets, it should be said, can be converted into dumdum 
bullets by filing the points and exposing the lead. The 
X-ray plates of the effects of these bullets on bone 
furnish strong presumptive evidence whether the bullet 
was jacketed or not. Colonel Lagarde, in the series of 
plates which illustrate his book, shows that the fracture 
caused by the dumdum bullet betrays fragments of lead 
to the plate, and a butterfly arrangement of the particles. 
MY FIFTY DOLLAR SALMON. 
By Harry R. Kylie. 
Far from the haunts of man, away from the 
City’s canyons; far, far from trolley cars and 
taxicabs we wandered; we were in search of 
the lordly landlocked salmon; the champion 
heavyweight, lightweight, all-around, catch as 
you can, continuous performer, so I had been 
told. 
As regards salmon, my piscatorial education 
had been neglected. It had progressed from 
perch and sunfis'h, to still-fishing for pike and 
bass; to trolling for pike, bass, or muskies; to 
fly fishing for bass; and with the latter I am 
content; it is good enough, although I doff my 
hat to the landlocked salmon. 
“Good morning, George.” I greet the guide 
as his head is thrust in to tell me to get up and 
get busy. As if any such summons were neces¬ 
sary. As if my oity-sated brain could rest un¬ 
der the anticipative delights of tomorrow, my 
first day of salmon fishing. 
Bless your simple heart, George, did you but 
know it, I have been catching salmon all night. 
I have been 'impatiently waiting for hours, for 
the first grey streaks of the dawn. I heard you 
get up and light your fire. Yes, indeed! And 
so you find me dressed. 
“Think we’d better • wait for breakfast, 
George?” I ask him. George looks at me as 
though he doubts his ears. But he has listened 
to these madmen before, and at length remarks 
gravely that he reckons we’d better. 
Down the softly carpeted avenue, flanked with 
the lofty pine trees we go. Gleaming through 
them I can see the lake, lying smooth as glass 
in the still air of early morning. What is there 
about this sight—tell me brother anglers—that 
makes us, young or old, wildly desire to shout 
for pure joy? And again, why is it that we 
don’t? 
Years of wearing convention’s shackles, no 
doubt, have accustomed us to this model self-re¬ 
pression, and a more solemn, judicial looking 
fraternity than The Anglers would be, I am 
sure, hard to find. But ah! What inward tumults 
convulse them. Someday I am going to burst my 
shackles. And then I’ll make the welkin ring, 
and curses to him who utters a protest, or 
easts aspersions on my sanity. 
I busy myself rigging up—we are going to 
troll—while George propels us out to where the 
big fellows lie waiting fcir us. Bless the snarl! 
It wouldn’t be fishin’ if everything went smooth¬ 
ly. I drop my lure overboard after solemnly 
blessing it, and the music of the reel, as the 
line runs out, is sweet indeed. 
Some day when I shall end my earthly toil, 
and meet Him face to face, I hope that He will 
—and if He does not that I shall have the cour¬ 
age timidly to suggest it—assign me to some 
wooded, lonesome lake, well stocked; a log cab¬ 
in among the pines; an efficient guide; plenty of 
grub (and may I find a few boon companions 
there). Then I shall be content, even though I 
spend days and days without a nibble; and I 
shall come, and I shall lay at His feet my big¬ 
gest ones, in token of my eternal gratitude. 
A big one takes a mighty leap, and falls back. 
Which way will he go? Hope whispers that he 
may in his playful mood come near my lure, and 
then—but minutes pass. Evidently he has 
gone the other way. Mischievous Hope. 
Slowly we move along under the silent 
impulse of George’s oars. I hold my rod, and 
gaze abstracted into space, or with interest at 
the blossoming woods. The first winds of the 
morning are rippling the lake. I gaze scornfully 
at the laggard sun, which is but now beginning 
to appear, and we glide silently for an hour 
without a break in the quietness of it. 
Suddenly I feel the sharp tug that tells of a 
strike, and a thrill courses through my body. 
What is it? I wait expectantly, but nothing 
happens. I can feel the lure working busily. 
Ah yes! that must have been it; that half sub¬ 
merged, water-soaked log that we passed. But 
the thrill’s the thing and we get if just the 
same. 
Sitting in dreamy content, I watch the tiny 
waves roll merrily upon the sandy beach as we 
pass along, or slap gently against the face of a 
rock. I watch the pines swaying gently in the 
breeze. I inhale the cool fresh air, laden with 
the scent of these evergreen giants. We seem 
to be doing nothing better than wearing out 
the lure, but what boots it? The first anticipat- 
ive thrills have passed, and the mounting sun 
has warmed ifhe air, and filled it with a dolce- 
far-niente sort of nectar, and I care not whether 
a salmon strikes or not. In fact, just now, I 
think I’d rather-he wouldn’t. I’m too lazily con¬ 
tented. 
“How many salmon did you say were in this 
lake, George ?’ 
George snickers. “Guess they aint but the 
one; that one we saw jump,” he ventures. 
“All right, we’ll let him run until this after¬ 
noon, George, let’s go and feed.” 
Dear reader, I started to tell you of my fifty 
dollar salmon, and I have recounted for you 
the experience of my first morning—Monday 
morning—the afternoon was an exact replica of 
it except 'that a different course took us past 
new scenery, but no nearer the big fellow I 
wanted. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and 
Friday, ditto. 
Each and every time out, we had met some 
more fortunate brother angler battling with a 
