EAR the spot where we had stopped, 
a coulée, fringed with rushes and 
willow trees, wormed its way. Sur- 
rounding it upon all sides were stubbles 
with a generous sprinkling of kernels 
upon the ground. A short distance 
ahead a covey of quail was hiding in 
some wild cucumber bushes, while a 
few mallard ducks swam about in the 
eddying waters. If the pheasant didn’t 
bite, there was always a chance of 
hooking something 
just as good but— 
Jim Duffy was 
fat and forty. And 
he didn’t know any 
more about shoot- 
ing than a duck 
does about dish- 
washing. I said 
didn’t! He's a 
tenderfoot no 
longer. But at that 
time he had never 
hunted. 
“LJ ERB’S a good 
place to start 
out, Jim,” I  ob- 
served as we put 
our guns together 
and surveyed the 
landscape. “You 
take the other side 
of the coulée and 
I'll try to scare 
something up 
here.” 
Eagerness for 
the chase fairly 
stuck out all over 
Jim. He was like 
a boy again admir- 
ing his first suit of 
long pants. He 
was ready for any- 
thing. 
We had advanced, 
perhaps, a hundred 
yards when I heard 
Jim shoot while 
screened behind a 
clump of bushes. 
Then he discharged his gun again. 
wes I thought. This is getting seri- 
ous. Must have winged one and is 
chasing’ it. Then I remembered Jim’s 
rotund profile and I knew just the 
chance he would have to run a pheasant 
down. 
There was a sound near the spot 
where my partner had disappeared, and 
there was a novice, Jim, with as hand- 
some a male specimen of the pheasant 
family as you could want! 
“Beginner’s luck!” sang out Jim 
from across the creek. ‘“He’ll look right 
well on my mantle at home. Any luck?” 
Page 593 
From a painting by Percival Rosseau. 
“None to speak of,” said I. “Some 
confounded idiot across the creek 
seared up that flock of mallards I had 
my eye on. The next time I saw him 
he was carrying a male pheasant. Let’s 
go 1? 
qh HE two of us moved on, paralleling 
the stream, Jim ever vigilant and 
happy and strutting along in kingly 
fashion. 
I flushed a bird before long which 

responded to my second shot, although 
it was only winged and I had to chase 
it into a stubble before getting it. Jim 
got another shot but missed. He was 
bitterly disappointed over his failure. 
“Keep a stout heart,” said I. “You 
won’t get them all. Nobody does.” 
ALi HE walking was very bad in places, 
fences, high weeds and thickets 
barring the way. Before we had gone 
more than half a mile we had searched 
cornfields and stubbles along the way 
but our success was quite moderate. 
We found a number of birds feeding 
on the corn, particularly where a stream 
of water ran through it, but instead of 
getting up near us they would hurry 
to the edge of the field where flight was 
less restricted. Jim winged one which 
flew from under his feet, but it got 
away and we never got track of it. We 
could hear the birds tearing through 
the corn, rarely did any of them rise 
and give us a chance. 
WE surprised three birds which were 
drinking from an irrigation ditch 
along the side of a 
field of corn and I 
managed to ac- 
count for two of 
them in a _ twin- 
kling. Something 
ailed Jim’s gun and 
he didn’t shoot. 
‘They never work 
when you want 
them to!” he de- 
clared a moment 
later. “But ‘you 
got ’em anyhow. 
That’s alright.” 
Jim Duffy was 
one of those de- 
lightful fellows 
‘who value their 
meals more than so 
much gold. Hale 
and hearty, he hon- 
esty felt that a 
vast amount of 
regular nutriment 
was necessary to 
keep the doctor 
from his domicile 
and himself from 
crossing the Great 
Divide. 
Consequently, I 
was not surprised 
when he hauled out 
a brace of ham 
sandwiches from 
his rear pocket and 
left me standing 
there a foodless 
spectator. 
“Can’t get along 
without eats, you 
know,” said Jim between bites. Have 
one?” 
Now it was perfectly safe for him to 
offer me one of his sandwiches. Re- 
alizing that I knew he possessed barely 
enough for himself he felt certain that 
I would not far leave the boundaries of 
etiquette to accept his very sustenance 
of life. 
WASN’T hungry. It wasn’t that. 
But on a bracing November day with 
a long tramp tucked in the discard one’s 
mouth naturally waters when ham 
sandwiches are devoured under one’s 
(Continued on page 634) 
