Aug. 6, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
205 
a small copse about a mile and a half away. The 
course of the ’plane was set iij the direction of 
the copse. In a minute or two we were circling 
over it. The Colonel took a smoke-ball from 
the box beside him. and dropped it just clear 
of the windward side of the copse. What an 
improvement the “Mephitic” is on the older 
smoke-balls! A single whiff of the dense black 
cloud of fetid smoke liberated by an exploded 
ball is enough to make anything from a tomtit 
to a fox clear out of cover. 
When the “Mephitic” dropped by 'the Colonel 
exploded, the fuliginous, suffocating fumes shot 
forth in a circle eighty or more yards wide, the 
gentle breeze carrying the cloud onward through 
the copse. Before it had reached the further 
end of the pheasant we were after had inhaled 
rather more than he cared about. He rose with 
a loud whirr, and began to climb the air, up, up, 
up, as pheasants always do when a dose from a 
“Mephitic” gets into their heads. Quick as 
thought, Wolf, a tip-top hand at the game, had 
touched lever and wheel, and the same moment 
saw' us. swooping at terrific speed toward the 
earth, placing our quarry between ourselves and 
the blue. A pheasant is at all times a compara¬ 
tively poor subject for a course. A snipe or a 
woodcock is the bird to make your hair rise— 
and one keeps one's hair to carry to one’s grave 
now, thanks to our.friends the microbes. 
' A clumsy, perspiring-looking wretch the 
pheasant appeared as he struggled vainly to out¬ 
distance us in his upward efforts. Tommy 
clamored loudly for a shot, just one shot, his 
first shot from a ’plane. I yielded, handing 
him the full-choke 28-bore. He took a really 
sporting shot, just as the bird swooped, and, 
somew'hat to my surprise, killed it as dead as a 
stone. 
Down went the ’plane in graceful circles after 
the bird. Tommy invented a new sporting law 
on the spur of the moment, viz., that the one 
who kills a bird has the sole right to retrieve it. 
I raised no objection, as any one can use the 
vacuum retriever on a bird-lying in the open 
as the pheasant w'as. Tommy released the 
clutch and let the tube of the retriever run out 
to its full length. With finished skill Wolf 
brought the ’plane gently over the spot at the 
exact elevation, the mouth of the tube not a 
foot off the ground. At the . psychological 
moment Tommy pressed the push, and the 
pheasant shot up the tube into the net beside 
him. 
By luncheon-time we had bagged three and a 
half brace of pheasants. It being the first day 
of the pheasant-shooting , season, we did not 
waste time on other game. We alighted for 
luncheon in an inviting-looking meadow. 
Luncheon over, we again rose on the wing, 
bagging another pheasant within half an hour. 
We were some thirty miles from home at the 
time we killed this bird, and not more than half 
a mile from the coast. 
“Let’s try a smoke-ball on that patch of 
furze. Colonel,” I said, as Wolf was on the 
point of setting our course inland again. “I re¬ 
member it held a ’cock four seasons ago. The 
beggar gave me the slip in a sudden gale after 
a course of not a yard less than fifty miles.” 
As Wolf brought the ’plane round, the 
Colonel dropped a “Mephitic” to the windward 
of the furze. A second or two afterward a 
magnificent woodcock twisted forth like a wood¬ 
cock gone mad. We were in for a course that 
could be called a course. Tommy gave a loud 
cheer, and was promptly squashed. 
In less time than it takes to write we were 
hot on the heels of the speeding ’cock. While 
he streaked upward we swooped down, with the 
result that we were quickly beneath him. Then 
began what promised to be one of the toughest 
struggles ever engaged in between ’plane and 
bird. He twisted and dodged and broke away 
in a glorious sporting manner, sometimes gain¬ 
ing as much as a quarter of a mile before Wolf, 
at a tilt that made Tommy clutch the rail des¬ 
perately, could bring the ’plane round to a 
straight line of chase again. During three- 
quarters of an hour we never once got within 
three gunshots of our quarry. By this time we 
were a ^ood five-and-twenty miles out at sea, 
and something like a mile and a half above the 
water. No one bad spoken a word, so tense is 
the excitement of a really fine course. Not a 
sign of tiring did the ’cock show. Nature did 
her part by means of a sudden strong gust, 
which caught the ’cock as he twisted, while it 
barely touched the ’plane; human nature acted 
through Tommy, who seized the 28-bore and 
blazed at the bird as it dashed by us some 90 
yards away; fluke’s part was to ordain that a 
stray pellet should strike the victim’s skull and 
plunge a stone-dead ’cock down through that 
mile and a half of space to the waves below. 
Tommy once more asserted his right to re¬ 
trieve the bird 'killed by him. I acquiesced. 
Glancing at the Colonel, I saw a smile playing 
about the dear old chap’s mouth. It is only 
rarely that he smiles; I smiled, too. Our 
thoughts were the same. 
While Tommy ran out the tube of the re¬ 
triever, Wolf took the ’plane steadily down‘to 
the sea and brought the mouth of the tube 
slowly over the floating ’cock. Tommy pressed 
the push at the correct moment. The bird shot 
up the tube into the net. There also shot up 
the tube and both into the net and through the 
net as well a spurting bodv of two gallons or 
so of salt water, which dashed full into the 
face of my great-great-great-grandson and 
nearly knocked him out of the ’plane. I war¬ 
rant he will never hold his face near the tube 
again when retrieving a bird from water. He 
expressed his sentiments with justifiable vigor. 
The dear old Colonel laughed till he gasped for 
breath.—Shooting Times. 
A KEEPER'S LONG VtGIL. 
In Dunfermline Sheriff Court a poacher was 
convicted and fined the other day for tres¬ 
passing in pursuit of game on the estate of 
Fordell. The story of the gamekeeper was that 
while patrolling on 1 the evening of a certain 
Saturday he heard a hare squealing, and dis¬ 
covered it in a snare. He hid himself near the 
spot where the hare was caught, and lay there 
for thirteen hours. At eight o’clock on Sunday 
morning the accused appeared upon the scene 
in order to examine the snare, and he (the 
keeper) confronted him. The long vigil then 
terminated. 
This remarkable instance of patience and en¬ 
durance throws a curious sidelight on the 
keeper’s life and work. Many people—not ex¬ 
cluding a certain class of sportsmen—seem to 
be under the impression that the game pre¬ 
server is chiefly occupied in strutting over 
moors and meadows with a spaniel, a retriever, 
or a Scotch terrier at his heels, and a D. B. gun 
tucked securely under his arm. According to 
popular notion, his strolls are undertaken when 
and whither his fancy dictates; and his occupa¬ 
tion is far and away the most pleasant and least 
exacting that a workingman can possibly en¬ 
gage in. The reality is entirely different from 
this idealistic picture. To cope successfully 
with the various enemies arrayed against his 
feathered charge makes a heavy demand on his 
time, energy, and skill. Predaceous birds and 
animals have to be destroyed by means of 
traps, guns and every conceivable engine; the 
nocturnal movements of human marauders have 
to be closely watched; and the rearing and feed¬ 
ing of the pheasants and other game birds have 
to be attended to during six or seven months 
each year. 
In the shooting season, he has his work cut 
out for him in conducting operations in the 
field, handling and managing-dogs, disposing of 
the bag of game, and making himself generally 
useful to his employer and his guests. Indeed, 
it happens with unpleasant frequency that the 
bustling keeper is obliged to add day to night 
and Sunday to the week, and if he fails to do 
so his preserves are sure to suffer. Not only 
must he be active and eager, but he must be 
possessed of a considerable amount of skill and 
special knowledge—and yet his wages do not 
much exceed those of an untutored farm 
laborer. Truly, he deserves the most liberal 
treatment at the hands of his employer.—County 
Gentleman. 
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The Story of the Indian. 
By George Bird Grinnell, author of “Pawnee Hero 
Stories,” “Blackfoot Lodge Tales,” etc. 12mo. Cloth. 
Price, $1.50. 
Contents: His Home. Recreations. A Marriage 
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