and were off for a thirty-five mile drive 
to the Arkansas Line. In Arkansas 
the bag limit was twenty-five birds. 
Though I never care to make big kills, 
I was exceedingly anxious that Clark 
take plenty of birds back to St. Louis. 
yee morning was bright but cold 
and crisp. The weatherman had 
evidently considered our convenience 
and timed the coming bad weather ac- 
cordingly. Clark was so dubious about 
the prospect of having any 
shooting over Old Joe that he 
could not conceal his disappoint- 
ment. He slumped down beside 
me in the car and manifested 
very little interest in the scenery 
along the route, and none what- 
ever in he rapidly nearing end 
of the trail. We had been driv- 
ing for an hour and had reached 
a point well over the line, when 
two birds sailed across the road 
directly in front of the car. I 
brought the car to an abrupt 
stop. Clark was almost asleep 
and so cold he could hardly stir. 
When informed two birds had 
crossed the road and lit’not more 
than one hundred feet south of 
it, he inquired, ‘‘Reckon we can 
kick ’em up?” 
Joe was first unloaded and sent 
in the direction of the birds. Be- 
fore we had our guns assembled, 
he was on a very stylish point. 
A little fire came into Clark’s 
eyes. I remained in the road 
and told Clark to take the shot. 
As he walked alongside the dog, 
one quail came up. Clark was in 
action very quickly—bang, bang, 
bang, and the bird was un- 
touched. I had an easy shot and 
killed it just as it swung across 
the road. Joe moved on a few 
yards and froze on the other bird. 
Two shots from Clark’s auto- 
matic failed to register and I 
dropped that bird within ten feet 
of where the first one fell. Right 
there I did some talking to my- 
self after this fashion, “Holy 
mackerel, that poor fellow, start- 
ing out to shoot quail at his time 
in life (he will not see forty-five 
‘again) when he can’t hit a flock of 
barns.” 
Y conclusion was, that if he had 
just given me a fair demonstra- 
tion of his markmanship, he evidently 
violated the law as well as sportsmen’s 
ethics in buying the ducks he loaded 
into the baggage car a week previous. 
It only adds to the chagrin of a novice 
to “kid” him about his shooting so I 
remained silent. 
Joe crossed to the north side of the 
find all my birds.” u 
’ two, and Joe brought in two more. The 
highway and roaded a short distance 
when a large covey flushed from open 
ground. They settled in a little briar 
thicket about one hundred yards dis- 
tant. Joe was frozen on point before 
we were half way to the thicket. Clark 
took the left side and I the right. The 
birds came out in every direction. 
With four shots I accounted for two 
birds. Clark was shooting in the op- 
posite direction, and emptied his auto- 
matic. His shots were so close to- 

Bob White, beloved of all who follow field 
Sports. 
gether that I was positive it was the 
work of an amateur. Joe promptly re- 
trieved my birds at command. Clark 
exclaimed, “Bring Old Joe here, I can’t 
He had picked up 
location where each bird fell, conclu- 
sively proved that no two of them were 
killed by a single shot. fetid 
Right then and there a readjustment 
of appraisements took place... Clark 
would have wagered his last dollar on 
Joe, and I decided that Clark had 
_ cold I guess.” 
_ bate the same side of the question, 
looked at quail over a gun barrel be- 
fore. Nor was I mistaken, for he is 
truly an accomplished quail _ shot. 
Feeling sure of my ground and that 
I would not ruffle his feelings, < said, 
“Clark, explain how you missed those 
two birds while ago.” He said, “Oh 
that fellow Volstead has made this 
warming up process very slow. I was 
We both chose to de- 
“Why a Volstead?” and after a brief 
but heated and one-sided discus- 
sion, we followed the dog. 
HAVE never taken any stock 
in this prevalent line of “bunk” 
that a dog does not reason. 
Years of experience have brought 
me to the irresistible conclusion 
that, if a dog’s conduct is the 
prompting of instinct, and man’s 
that of reason, then some dogs’ 
instinct is of much higher order 
than lots of folks’ reason. How- 
ever, I am not ready to concede 
that dogs are mind readers, yet, 
on that December day Joe seemed 
to share my anxiety to prove 
that he was a bird dog of rare 
qualities. He was on dress pa- 
rade all day. Clark would have 
willingly made a substantial re- 
duction in his pocket change to 
have taken that dog back to St. 
Louis as his own property. 
We crossed a narrow strip of 
woods to a field containing about 
six hundred acres. Through the 
field ran two sloughs each one 
averaging about twenty feet in 
width, and grown up with weeds 
and small brush. The other 
ground was practically level, had 
been farmed by a number of dif- 
ferent tenants the past season, 
in several patches of cotton, corn, 
wheat, peas and sorghum. From 
the top of the fence we viewed 
the field and decided we had 
found the “Promised Land.” Our 
expectations ran high and we 
were not disappointed. 
In one bound Joe cleared the 
fence a few rods south of us. 
When he hit the ground he ap- 
peared to have established con- 
tact with a magnet. He was flat on 
his belly, frozen on point. We walked 
in front of the dog and were rewarded 
by a covey of twenty or twenty-five 
birds. 
ACH of us took a toll of two. The 
others scattered along one of the 
aforesaid sloughs. On our way to 
them, Joe located another covey in 
heavy crabgrass. It was a smaller 
covey. An expenditure of seven shots 
(Continued on page 704) 
667 
