"Hunt? Warry? Does he hunt? Sure, every year for th' last thirty years
to my knowledge--only that's all; he jest hunts, never kills nothin'.
Leastways he never did till three year ago, 'n' I ought t' know, for I
always guides for him. Why, I mind one time he was stayin' over on the
Kagama, he got so hungry for meat he up 'n' chunks 'n' kills 'n' cooks
'n' eats a porcupine, th' p'rmiscous shootin' o' which is forbid by
Quebec law, 'cause they're so slow a feller can run 'em down 'n' get 'em
with a stick or stone, 'n' don't need t' starve just 'cause he's got no
gun.

"Three years ago he'd been up for the fly fishin' in late June 'n'
trollin' for gray trout in September, 'n then here he comes again th'
last week in October t' hunt. 'N' she was the same old story: nothing
doing!

"I could set him on th' best runways, 'n' Erne 'n' me could dog th' bush
till our tongues hung out 'n' we could hardly open our mouths 'thout
barkin'; could run deer past him till it must 'a looked--if he'd had a
loose look about him--like a Gracefield _habitaw_ weddin' pr'cession, 'n'
thar he'd set with his eyes fast on th' end o' his gun, I guess,
a-waitin' for a sign of a _bite_ 'fore he'd jerk her up to try 'n' get
somethin'. 'N' the queerest part was, he seemed to enjoy it just 's much
's if he'd brought down a three-hundred-pound buck to drag the wind out
o' Erne 'n' me at th' end o' a tump-line. Most fellers 'd got mad 'n'
cussed their luck. But not him--kindest, sweetest-tempered man I ever
knew. Guess he knowed we'd done our best 'n' had some kind o' secret
inside information that he hadn't.

"O' course, sometimes Warry'd get his gun on, but by that time th' deer
had quit th' runway 'n' was in th' lake up to their bellies pullin' lily
pads, or curled up in th' long grass o' a swale fast asleep.

"But all fellers has a day sometime, if they lives long enough--though
some o' them seems t' have t' get t' live a almighty long time t' get t'
see it. At last Warry's came.

"Erne 'n' me been doggin' a swamp where th' deadfall tangle was so thick
we was so nigh stripped o' clothes we couldn't 'a gone t' camp if there'd
been any women about. Drivin' toward where a runway crossed a neck
'tween two lakes, a neck so narrow two pike could scarce pass each other
on it, there we'd sot Warry 't th' end o' th' neck. Jest 'fore we got t'
him we heard a shot, 'n' I remarked t' Erne, 'Guess th' old man thinks
he's got a _bite_.' 'N' then w