Surprise number two: "No, thanks, Doc, I never smoke."

Now, imagine a man fifty years old, a member of the life-saving crew for years, a sailor, market shooter and a bayman all his life, who doesn't smoke or drink, and whose most emphatic expression was "Gosh!" I could only look at him in wonder, and think how different he was from some of the guides I had met in the West.

About this time we heard Jack open up, and, from the report of his

duck came in and circled behind us, and I let go at one, but didn't get him. Charlie pulled on the other, and made one of the finest kills I ever saw. The absence of smoke, as well as the accustomed roar of the old gun, so surprised him that he forgot to shoot at the other duck. He looked around, saw me laughing, and then remarked, "Gosh! Doc, that powder certainly does get there. Give me some more of those shells. I had made a convert, and was glad of it. We kept right along, some

gun, he was sticking to his first love -black powder. The next time, however, we heard the sharp crack of

the nitro, and Charlie said: "There! Captain Jack is using some of that new-fangled powder. It may be all right, but I like the oldfashioned kind."

Just here I thought I would have. some fun with him. While he was not looking, I slipped into his gun a couple of shells loaded with nitro powder, and awaited developments. In a few moments a pair of black

times killing, sometimes missing, and just before sundown started for the house, as it is a rule of the club not to shoot after the sun goes down.

Jack met us at the landing, and we found, on comparing notes, that we had both had good luck, but I had a little the best of him. Shortly after we changed clothes and settled down to one of Charlie's suppers. Eat? Well, that man could cook, and from the way I put away the provender he must have thought that folks hadn't much to eat on Manhat

tan Island. When we finally quit, I did want one more flapjack, but had already struck my limit and had to pass out. With the cigars came the explanations of "how that one duck was missed," the long shots made, and "how that new powder did kill 'em!"

We

After a nightcap we turned in, and the next thing I knew, Wilbur was saying, "Come, turn out; it's four o'clock and breakfast is ready." It seemed tough to get out at that time, but it had to be done. It was cold as in midwinter. A light fog hung over the bay, and from the marsh back of the house came the quack of an old drake, while from the kitchen we caught the odor of ham and eggs, flapjacks, coffee and "riz" biscuit, to all of which we did full justice. Then we hustled into our coats, and got the boats ready. This morning Wilbur was to go with me. pulled out in the lead, closely followed by Jack and Dick, but owing to a very low tide were compelled to haul the boats over the mud for at least half a mile. It seemed about eleven miles to me, but we finally got into deep water and poled down to the bog. On the way I got a shot at a single mallard that jumped from the bushes, and thus scored first blood for the day. We put out the decoys about half a mile from the spot where Charlie and I had shot the evening before, and had just got ten settled, when we heard the boom of heavy guns from the east end of the preserve. Evidently some poachers were at work down there. However, they served us a good turn by starting up the ducks, for we soon saw a bunch coming our way. As on the day before, I could not wait long. enough for them, and only succeeded in wing-tipping one, which Wilbur finally got, after a long chase. On returning he gave me a quiet lecture on the evils of shooting too soon. As before, I promised to reform, and as before I immediately broke my promise. I had the mortification of see

ing a pair of black duck sail up toward Jack after I had saluted them, only to be gathered in by a quick double. I didn't say much, but the next pair were allowed to light in the decoys before I made a move. Of course, they were gathered in in good shape.

It was about this time that I found that Wilbur, like "Old Charlie," was a teetotaler, but, unlike the latter, he would smoke. So we put in about half an hour with our cigars before any more ducks came our way. They were flying further out in the bay by this time, and Jack was getting good shooting, judging from the many trips Dick was making to retrieve.

About 12:30 Jack pulled up and came down to our bog to eat lunch. As I only had two sandwiches, I couldn't figure how we were to make much of a meal, but when I saw Charlie's smiling face rounding the point, with the big tin oven in the bow of the boat, and heard his hail of "How's your appetite, boys?" I realized that Jack had made all arrangements to take care of our stomachs. The oven was filled with steak, potatoes, and all the good things we could wish for, steaming hot. We indulged in a war dance and three cheers for Charlie. The manner in which that forage disappeared was a caution. We rested about half an hour and then put into the blinds. There had been a few ducks flying all day, but now they seemed to have decided on the middle of the bay as the only place they cared to go. After watching several flocks drop out there, Wilbur said, "Doc, I can't stand this. Let's go out there and give 'em a whirl."

"Yes," I replied, "that would suit me exactly, but a black duck is no fool, and he isn't coming up to a boat. anchored in the middle of that bay."

"Never you mind about that," said Wilbur. "You just help me get some grass and rushes and I'll show you a trick with a hole in it.”

We gathered a lot of grass and

rushes, threw it on the boat and pushed out in mid-channel, and after spreading it all over the boat and ourselves, lay down on our backs. Did the ducks come? Well, they did that. As soon as a bunch came near us Wilbur commenced talking to them. No artificial call did he use, but just a quiet note coming from his throat that caused every duck in hearing to put for the decoys as though he were in a hurry. Then, when we raised up, put four barrels into the bunch about thirty yards away, and didn't get a feather, we had no need of a blind for a moment. There was a sulphurous haze floating around that boat that even a black duck couldn't see through. After mutual explanations as to how it all happened, Wilbur took a large drink of water, and settling down refused to talk until we had, to some extent, recovered our reputations. This we did in about ten minutes, for as we were lying down in the boats, four ducks, coming from behind us, sailed over us about ten feet above the water, and were gone before we had time to shoot. A few calls from Wilbur, however, swung them around, and they settled among the decoys. Meantime my cap had slipped over my eyes, and I could scarcely see, but I did not dare move to fix it, and besides, there wasn't time. I got a glimpse of one duck; fired, and saw him coming down as I swung into the next one. He dropped, but it was too late, and my second barrel hit him fair, just as

Wilbur sang out, "Here! stop that! I've killed that duck once." When I got my cap off my eyes sure enough there lay three on the water, and the fourth was going out of sight. Just the same, our reputations had been. saved. From this time on we had good shooting, principally at black duck, a few broadbills and one old

coot.

When the shooting was at its best Wilbur suddenly remarked, "There goes Captain Jack in. It's sundown, and we must pull up." This was hard, but rules must be lived up to, and with a long face I put down my gun and got ready for the trip in. It was a hard pull against a hard wind, and we arrived pretty well pumped out, but happy, as we were "high boat.'

Charlie had roast duck for supper and had allowed one and a half ducks to each man. This we found to be the proper allowance, and every man took care of his share. After supper we cleaned guns, told stories and smoked till bed-time. I turned in to dream of a big bag on the morrow, as it was our intention to put out the battery and try the broadbills. I was disappointed, however, as on going outside in the morning the sloop was seen coming across. She brought a message calling me home, and my fun was over for that Spring. However, I am in receipt of an invitation to finish my shoot this Fall, and if I am alive I am going to eat one more of Charlie's dinners, tell a few more stories with Dick and Wilbur, and may help kill another duck or two.

Ta cosy little hotel on the Massachusetts coast, situated within half a mile of one of the prettiest brant shooting sections that I have ever had the good fortune to run against, half a dozen sportsmen were tipped back in their chairs on the piazza one evening last Spring, recounting the day's adventures, telling of the lucky shots that had fallen to their share, and of the unaccountable misses which they had made. We had all of us had a good day's shooting, and that spirit of self satisfaction, which is so true a barometer of a sportsman's frame of mind, pervaded the crowd. While one of the party was in the midst of an interesting story of personal experiences encountered the year before on these same marshes, one of the sportsmen at the ther end of the piazza came toward us, and informed us that one of the oldest big game hunters in the country had arrived that morning, and that as he was not only a hunter of wide experience, but an excellent story-teller, would no doubt be glad to hear that he had consented to tell us of his last experience in the Teton Mountain range, which lies just south of the great Yellowstone National Park, where he had gone for the express purpose of killing a grizzly. I do not suppose that there was a member of our little group who had not either heard or read bear stories, and I venture to say that the first thought of each and every one of us was, that any bear story which might be told that evening by any bear hunter on earth, would be practically the same as we had heard, and read, time and

we

time again. However, as our stories of the day's adventures had about all been told, we decided to hear what there was in the bear story, and we accordingly shifted our seats to the other end of the piazza, and awaited the advent of the bear hunter.

He came out in a few moments: a man under medium stature, with small piercing eyes, prominent features, and a full, flowing, gray beard. Although small in stature, it was apparent at a glance that the man's frame had been put up for endurance, and that he was probably capable of standing more hardship and greater exertion than were a good many younger men in the party. He was introduced to us by the sportsman who had called us together, as Mr. A. B. F. Kinney, of Worcester. The introduction further informed us that Mr. Kinney had been prevailed upon to tell us of a little adventure which had fallen to his lot in the far-distant mountains of Idaho and Wyoming. Mr. Kinney acknowledging the introduction in a modest way, took his seat so as to face our party, and said: "Gentlemen, I don't know that I shall be telling you anything new, but at the request of my personal friend, Mr. H., who has heard this story, and who has assured me that it contains some features which may interest you, as sportsmen, I will, if you desire, do what I can to entertain you." The sportsman's general appearance and manner was perhaps so entirely different from that which we had expected in a bear hunter, that the expression of our desire to hear him was almost unanimous; so, settling himself back in his chair, he said:

"Although a business man, and having been engaged in business in Worcester for a great many years, I have perhaps hunted as many hours

in my life as a great many men who have lived to be much older than I am, and who have considered themselves sportsmen at that. I have shot, so far as I know, every species of game in the United States, both bird and beast. I have hunted on the plains of the far West before the Indian had been driven from what he considered his inherited landed possessions, and I have seen as many head of big game as would be represented by all the horses and all the dogs and all the sheep that exist in the territory between the city of Worcester and the city of Boston. I have seen in one herd in Montana over 50,000 head of buffalo, and I have seen in addition to that, almost as many thousands of elk and antelope. The way we estimate the number of head of game in a herd in that country, or rather the way we used to, for they now exist no more compared with the number in which they were to be found at that time, was to count a herd of antelope, for instance, and if there were seventyfive in that group, we would pick out another group twice as large, and call it one hundred and fifty, and another group half as large we would estimated at 35, and so on, until we had counted everything in sight. When I began counting game, I counted it as a tenderfoot would count it, and when I had counted up over thirty-five hundred, and began to look rather pale and exhausted, a guide found what I was doing, and put me on to the right method.

"Although I had hunted in all of the big game districts of the United States and had, as I say, killed many species of game that inhabited this country, I had not yet killed a grizzly bear, and it was in '92 that I finally made up my mind that I would not any longer be shy on this species of game. With this end in view, I joined a party of friends leaving Worcester in September of that year, and went westward as far as Idaho. Our car came to a halt at a point on

the Ogden City Short Line which ran northward from the Union Pacific at that point to the Northern Pacific. By previous arrangements we had secured our escort, and the day after we had arrived there, our outfit, consisting of nineteen horses and six guides, met us. That same afternoon we packed up and traveled northward, south of the Yellowstone National Park and into the mountains of Idaho. We had some sport en route, killing a moose, an elk, and several antelope, and the day after capturing this game we succeeded in killing a silver tip bear, weighing about six hundred pounds. This bear fell to the credit of a friend in our party, but even had it fallen to my credit, I should not have counted it as anything in my trip, for it was a grizzly, and not a silver tip, that I was after. At the end of the week we had traveled a distance of about 105 miles, and we had reached the mountain range over which we had to pass to get into the great divide between the States of Idaho and Montana. We successfully crossed this range, but met with very little, if any, game, and two days later had reached the divide. Here it began to snow, and our guides advised us that unless we wanted to stay there all Winter we had better cross the range back into Idaho. This was disappointing, but we took the guides' advice, and it was fortunate we did so, for within forty-eight hours afterward there had been a fall of three feet of snow in the divide, and it remained there until Spring. We continued in our search of game, but with only indifferent success, and as the time which we were to be absent from the car had been limited to three weeks, we soon found ourselves compelled to make preparations for our return journey.

"I cannot tell you how disappointed I felt. I had made that long trip to Idaho for the express purpose of killing just one animal, and that animal I had not been able to find. As