Not 
So 
Bad 
By FRANK RORKE 

UCK shooting, with its ever 
D changing problems, is one of the 
greatest sports in the world. 
But all during the day while I am en- 
joying the shooting I am also looking 
forward to another wonderful sport 
after I reach camp. I always try to 
reach camp ahead of the other shooters. 
Then I light my smoke and await their 
arrival. There comes one along the 
edge of the lake. Away out on the 
lake, with steady beat of oars ap- 
proaches another. These two will meet 
at the same point on the shore. While 
still out at least sixty yards the boat- 
man elucidates as follows: “Say, did 
you see that dodgasted boob off to the 
right of my blind? He was shooting at 
ducks a mile high. He scared away 
everything that tried to come my way. 
I would like to meet that gink in a 
dark alley.” Etc., etc. Then he steps 
out of his boat with three or four ducks. 
“Yes, I heard a lot of shooting over 
your way,” says the other one, dropping 
two or three ducks on the ground, and 
then adds, “By jinks, I am going to use 
a different blind tomorrow. I had to 
look right into the sun at everything 
I shot at. I can hardly see yet.” Then 
they walk into camp and neither has 
courage enough to ask how many I 
have. 
ND so they drop in, one by one. A 
shadow darkens the doorway and 
Harry steps in, but he drops his ducks 
outside, so we know he did not get many. 
He immediately starts swinging his 
right arm, rubbing his shoulder with 
the left hand, and accompanying said 
actions with distorted features. ‘“Dog- 
gone. Guess I shot too much yester- 
day. This shoulder is sore as a boil. 
Every time I pulled trigger today I 
flinched like a rank amateur.” So that 
lets him out. Then comes the only limit 
Page 17 

WSSchaldach-2t d 
of the day. Does he drop them out- 
side? He does not! He brings them 
right in strung on his game carrier and 
thrown over his shoulder. 
In his right hand is his gun, and in 
his left his shell case. He lays them 
aside one at a time and sort of lingers 
the while, and each move tends to swing 
those birds a little, just enough to keep 
them the center of attention. Then 
having divested himself of all other en- 
cumberances he employs both hands and 
a series of grunts in depositing that 
limit of ducks on the floor, with a non- 
chalance that seems to say, “Go ahead, 
you fellows, take any of those that you 
need. I will get plenty more tomor- 
row morning.” But he says nothing, 
except possibly an indifferent inquiry 
as to when dinner will be served. 
ANP here comes Jules Crappeau, 
with an expression like a fig syrup 
advertisement, and a few ducks. He 
drops wearily into a chair and an- 
nounces, “Sacré blue, I don’ feet pretty 
good. I am seeck all day. I t’ink some- 
t?ing I eat w’en I am in New Orleans 
las’ week.” But you should see him at 
the table in about an hour. 
Jules is never known by that name 
where he lives. There he is called “Not 
So Bad” Crappeau. Now I will tell 
you the reason for this. Any time Jules 
sees, hears or does anything that pleases 
him, his constant and only comment is 
“Not so bad.” And here is how he 
says it. The “not” he pronounces quite 
loudly, the “so” in ordinary voice, and 
the “bad” he drawles out with a rising 
inflection that usually denotes a ques- 
tion, but with Jules it is meant as a 
statement and not a question. So there 
it is. Now, everyone together, “NOT 
so b-a-a-a-d?” That’s fine! Now you 
see where Jules got his nick-name. If 
Jules saw a pretty girl, or made an es- 
Another Corking 
Duck Yarn in French 
Canadian Dialect 
by 
the Author of 
““Cousin Joe Le Duc’’ 
“Den dat ducks she jus’ split in de middle—’ 
pecially difficult shot, or watched his 
dog catch a lively cripple, his only com- 
ment was “NOT so b-a-a-a-d?” 
NE of the party inquired as to my 
success during the afternoon and 
when I informed him of the exact num- 
ber brought in, Jules eyed me for a mo- 
ment and then changed his customary 
comment to, “Huh, guess you don’ feel 
pretty good too.” 
Fatigue is a peculiar affliction. I 
have seen the duck shooter drag him- 
self out of a duck marsh on a hot after- 
noon with grass clinging to his waders, 
laboriously pulling his feet out of ten 
inches of mud at each step, then drop 
face forward on the bank in an appar- 
ent state of complete exhaustion, and 
lie there for fifteen minutes. I have 
seen him drag himself into camp, 
sprawl on the floor and kick off waders 
or heavy boots, with accompanying 
moans, groans and sighs. J have seen 
him sitting around camp like a drowsy 
convalescent on a hospital lawn on a 
warm afternoon. 
Then I have seen him respond to the 
dinner call. And after close observa- 
tion at the table, I can recall no in- 
stance where this affliction of the lower 
limbs, called fatigue, ever gave any 
evidence of having extended as far 
north as the arms. 
T HIS evening, after the usual exhibi- 
tion of culinary calisthenics, chairs 
were pushed back against the wall, and 
conversation seemed to avoid the hap- 
penings of the day, especially the shoot- 
ing end of it. Theories, duck habits, 
migration, front shots against side 
shots, each was discussed freely, and 
ended by each member, as usual, retain- 
ing his own pet theory. Finally they 
came around to the art of duck calling. 
(Continued on page 53) 
