FOREST AND STREAM 
1189 
GROWING UP WITH BOB WHITE 
AS THE BOY PURSUED SPORTS AFIELD HE ACQUIRED MUCH 
USEFUL AND INTERESTING KNOWLEDGE OF QUAIL HABITS 
By Ripley. 
{The first instalment of this fascinating series of quail hunting was published in the September number of Forest and Stream ) 
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IV. 
I N time the qualities of the old 
dog were worth boasting of, 
and father more than once com¬ 
mented on his' vitality. I am sure, 
as my memory lingers on my youth¬ 
ful days in the quail fields, that he 
was invariably getting a little better 
than ever. It could be attributed 
to one thing more than anything 
else; my legs could not set the pace 
of his first master, for I had never 
been able to cover as much ground 
in a day as he. At any rate Duke 
thrived, and if we delved further 
it might be that the rascal was do¬ 
ing less self-hunting than in his 
younger days and the going was selected for him. 
During these days I became acquainted with 
a boy in a village at the termination of the 
branch of our railroad. We will call him Mac 
for short. From the first day of our meeting 
we discovered a bond of sympathy linking us. 
His father owned a big tract of valuable timber 
and farming land, and operated one of the larg¬ 
est hardwood mills in the South. Naturally this 
gave Mac some prestige among his companions, 
and they were inclined to make much of him. 
If he had been of any other material than what 
he was they would have made a first class cad 
out of him. But Mac was a splendid boy every 
way, no uppishness about him, and what drew 
him most to me was his love for the woods and 
fields. 
One day I was visiting over at N-ville, and 
Mac confided to me his two great sources of hap¬ 
piness. He had a bird dog and a shot gun. 
There was joy in his heart when I told him 
about my possessions and of the amount of hunt¬ 
ing I had done. Then I learned from him, his 
dog, a large setter, was as old as Duke, and he 
was a present from his father, as the latter 
thought a mild attack of chorea had destroyed 
his further usefulness. There was nothing to 
that, however, for Jocko was the best dog in the 
world and setters were a heap better than point¬ 
ers 1 
My description of Duke was not much of a 
contrast to his old dog; but though he was de¬ 
ficient in chorea and long hair, he was also the 
best dog in the world, and pointers were a heap 
better than setters! 
Our arguments ended good naturedly. No 
two boys ever got along better. No opportunity 
presented itself for discussion about our guns. 
They were the same length, the same make, and 
the same guage. We had some controversy about 
proper loads, and I yielded to him in this. His 
father had a big store at the mill, and he had 
more means of testing out his theories with the 
store product, while mine were limited to home- 
loaded shells. 
Our parents learning of our desire to hunt to¬ 
gether arranged it so that we traded visits during 
the holidays. Not one of our parents had any 
fear of accident. If so they never expressed 
themselves within our hearing. We had had 
too much experience with guns and were too 
much of a kind. 
Mac’s shooting grounds were constituted of 
level redeemed swamp fields of rank corn and 
timber, frequently flooded and necessitating rub¬ 
ber footgear. On cold days I did not mind this, 
but on warm days I suffered much, especially so 
when there was little water in the fields. 
The shooting my country afforded was better 
in a way. There was an abundance of birds in 
both places. But on my grounds the crops were 
not rank, and did not require such a heavy frost 
to afford good shooting conditions. And the 
open shooting in corn was much easier, but his 
cotton fields balanced this. In the woods, though, 
except for the underfooting his led. There was 
not so much second growth post oak sapling with 
its red, frost-defying leaves to interfere with 
marksmanship. 
Before the shooting season we boasted much of 
our dogs, and though Jocko, his setter, failed 
to impress me much, I had good dog manners 
and never alluded to his physical shortcomings. 
A Match for the Keenest-Nosed Pointer. 
But the first day’s shooting I could 
with difficulty alone control my de¬ 
sire to laugh. Jocko was a setter 
of unusual height. The chorea af¬ 
fected his hind legs and his head. 
He went out well and was a good 
covey dog, but when he got on 
point he was the limit of drollery. 
I do not know that I every saw any¬ 
thing resemble him as he swayed 
unsteadily on point, head bobbing 
up and down and hind leg jerking 
to beat the band. A man that had 
imbibed too freely and was trying 
to hold up a moving lamp post re¬ 
minded me considerably of Jocko. 
Jocko surely had the goods and I admitted it; 
and were I to-day called upon tp judge be¬ 
tween him and Duke by performance on birds 
and stamina, I would admit they were equal in all 
things but brains, and Duke had him beaten there. 
It was one Saturday at home, then one Satur 
day in the swamp lands where we hunted. A 
certain amount of rivalry was engendered through 
our constant association in the sport of quail 
hunting. I had no real proof of it, neither did 
he, but deep down in our hearts we each believed 
ourself the best shot. Why, I do not know. 
From practice at home I had a trifle the best of 
it in cover, but on his own hill he held me safe 
with ease. It was more from a craving to excel 
each other than from our performances that 
this rivalry was given existence. 
Probably a question from an outsider about 
who was the best shot started the race, but one 
day the subject was broached. And while it is 
in my mind, I have never enjoyed shooting more 
with anybody than Mac. He never was over- 
eager, and if we doubled no words followed 
about who effected the kill. 
“I believe, Mac, I can kill more birds in a day 
than you,” 1 said, sheepishly sparring for a rise. 
“Mebbe so, but you haven’t done it yet,” he 
retorted in his plucky way. 
“Let’s have a race,” I suggested. I had started 
the ball rolling; it only required an additional 
shove from him to hurry its speed. “We will 
both shoot near the same grounds, in the same 
direction. Who ever makes the most kills we 
will acknowledge is the best man.” 
“That suits me,” agreed impeturbable Mac. 
I was sure I would win, for I had an unwaver¬ 
ing faith in the prowess of Duke, though he de¬ 
tested the wet slashes of Mac’s country on a 
cold day, where the scattered were sure to pitch 
into. Father said Duke would walk a mile to 
avoid crossing ten feet of shallow water. Jocko 
did not mind the water. But Duke had the 
shaky dog bested when it came to making the 
birds stick to point on bare cotton ground. So, 
for a real test at finding the dogs were about 
