. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 49 
Dennis Ryan’s Tenderfoot 
By EDMUND 
the tangled jungle, dust and fine powder 
from the leavxs rising in annoying volume. 
Soon we were sneezing and finding the way 
anything but pleasant. We kept steadily on. 
however, and after a few miles the character of 
the country changed and a series of glades were 
encountered where the surroundings were most 
agreeable. Signs of deer were all about in the 
I soft ground; evidently a company of them 
gathered here, and made it their home. They 
were abroad now, and we did not tarry to hunt. 
Really it was not necessary, because we had 
enough for breakfast, and the men did not 
seem very keen for hunting. I saw the reason 
why a little later, when shortly before mid-day 
we came to the Rio Dibulla, where we would 
stop for breakfast. Here the floods had 
brought down great quantities of sand, and on 
either side of the river for a space of some 
acres the country was parched to absolute lack 
of moisture. 
For a few moments we sat and rested. Ihen 
Manuel Maria, the little boy, began building a 
fire, and our attention was turned to the pro¬ 
visions. Not much for hungry men, pJantam 
and coffee, with some vollos, a kind of un¬ 
leavened cornbread. Evidently the men were 
not particularly concerned over the lack of 
provisions, and noticing that the dogs were 
circling about over the sand among the scrub 
growths which it supported, I began to suspect 
something. Presently one of the dogs set up 
a vigorous barking, and immediately Viejo ran 
and came back carrying a large land tortoise. 
Meanwhile other dogs had found game, and 
there was a general racing about among the 
bushes. We had to hurry because the land tor¬ 
toise is big enough to travel with some speed, 
and there were plenty of holes, pits and burrows 
in the soft, sandy ground, where they could find 
shelter, and from which the men did not try to 
dislodge them; saying that they did not like the 
rattlesnakes which lived in the sandy country. 
For something like half an hour we chased 
about, sometimes catching a tortoise, oftener 
finding a dog barking at a hole in the ground 
from which he had to be kicked, often with 
considerable force, before he would seek else¬ 
where. The chase did not last long, and when 
apparently all the moracones had taken to 
shelter, we went back to where we had stopped 
to camp for breakfast. There we found that 
six moracones had been secured, sufficient to 
last as abundant supplies for the day. Three 
of them were immediately killed and the lower 
shells taken off. Then they were cleaned and 
i set to stew over the coals in their own shells, 
which were massive and well adapted to such 
treatment. Certain things are good, and land 
tortoise stewed in its own shell is one of them. 
i They weighed two to four pounds each, and the 
three we cooked gave us ample for breakfast, 
but there was not any left. The flavor of the 
moracone is peculiar to itself, something be¬ 
tween a lobster and a terrapin, or perhaps a 
combination of them both. 
Having eaten to our fullest satisfaction, we 
rested for a time in the dry shade, looking up 
through the branches of the trees at the intense 
blue sky. Then it came time to retrace our 
steps, not so interesting now, nor so diffi¬ 
cult, for the trail had been cut; and along in 
the afternoon we were at our - camp again, rest¬ 
ing, and preparing for the night. 
T OM CRIB the bull-terrier watched me from 
the garden path, his head a little on one 
side, and an expectant look on his face. 
Previous experience had taught him that when 
I gathered vegetables before breakfast I usually 
went somewhere after the meal. The question 
uppermost in his mind was, “Shall I be wanted, 
too?” 
It was the last of September, and there was 
a frost. I was devoutly wishing that the frost 
A CANADIAN BULL MOOSE. 
Photographed by A. C. Tyler. 
had held off for one more day, as I had ar¬ 
ranged for my wife to drive me to the abode 
of one of my backwoods friends, and we were 
going in for a week’s hunting. With good luck 
we ought to reach the edge of the moose coun¬ 
try that night, and the morning would have been 
an ideal one for calling. I heard the purr-r-r-r 
of an automobile in the distance and wondered 
how far a call would carry on such a morning. 
The auto came nearer every second ; it was evi¬ 
dently driven at a furious rate. When it came 
opposite my garden gate it halted and a man, 
wearing a leather jacket - and a peaked cap, 
opened the gate and came in. Tom Crib ad¬ 
vanced to meet him with the same rheumatic 
F. L. JENNER 
stiffness of limb which the sight of an aggres¬ 
sive mongrel or a tramp invariably causes him. 
“Are you zee gamekeepaire?” inquired my 
visitor when I had called Tom to heel. “I like 
not zee ugly dog. Mistaire Wilson want a 
license, and when you get heem made out you 
bring heem up to zee gate an’ get your money. 
Now, if there is one thing I abominate it is 
to be ordered about by chauffeurs, flunkies or 
valets. I replied that if Mr. Wilson saw fit tcv 
come to the house I should have much pleasure 
in furnishing him with the document. 
The owner of the vehicle dismounted, took 
off his motor coat and goggles and entered the 
garden. The dog regarded him for a minute,, 
then trotted up the path to meet him with a 
gentle wagging of his tail. 
“Excuse my sending my man in for the license; 
I wanted to see you myself, anyway. I saw the 
dog and I wanted to see how he and Pierre 
would get on together. He’s a splendid chauf¬ 
feur, but he’s the most arrant dog funk I ever 
met. I never thought I should have to take out 
a shooting license in Canada or pay duty on an 
auto coming from England. They taxed me on 
my guns and rifles as well. Of course I get 
a rebate when I go back.” 
While the man was speaking I sized him up. 
His accent, appearance and manners were those 
of an educated English gentleman. The fact 
that a dog of Tom Crib’s intelligence was will¬ 
ing to fraternize with him implied that he was 
fond of dogs. His age was about twenty-one, 
and he was decidedly good looking. I showed 1 
him into my den and filled in a printed form to 
the effect that Ambrose Wilson, having paid 
me the sum of thirty dollars, was entitled to 
hunt game of all kinds until the first of Septem¬ 
ber of the following year, subject to the pro¬ 
visions of the game act. 
While I was writing, the telephone bell rang. 
I answered the call and found that it was from 
the Chief of Police, who was anxious to know 
if a black and red car had stopped at my place. 
I replied that it had, and the owner was still 
in my house. 
“Tell him I want to see him here right away,” 
said the Chief. “You’d better get in the car 
with him and show him where I live. Trouble? 
Why, that car went through the town like the 
devil went through Athlone, right past the 
Mayor’s house, too. A yoke of oxen belong¬ 
ing to the Beecher boys ran away, broke their 
yoke and upset a ton of fish gurry right in front 
of the Queen Hotel. Parsons is wild about it. 
He says his boarders won’t be able to have their 
windows open for a week. The Beechers are 
mad as hornets.” 
It was some time before I could convince Mr. 
Wilson that he had better go to the police sta¬ 
tion of his own free will than be taken there 
by some constable from the rural districts. 1 
knew the old chief would gather him in even 
if it necessitated his being fetched back from 
Halifax or Sydney. Finally we got into the car 
and ran down to the station. It was as I ex¬ 
pected. Mr. Wilson escaped with a reprimand 
for furious driving. He appeased the Beecher 
