Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 8

nearer the
shore and up into the creeks where they may feed.
It was getting toward the end of our sojourn; we had experienced
several quiet balmy days--no wind, low water, general listlessness.
"Should we have any more fun?" we asked, and went to bed. About
midnight the wind came howling through the trees, the weather became
cold, and the rattling windows responded to the hope of a good day
to-morrow. Getting our breakfast early, we selected our points and
hastened to the boats. Dark clouds, flying over a dull wintry sky,
denoted a steady blow--it was cheering. The blinds were quickly
reached, and decoys thrown out. Only a few birds were flying, the fitful
wind becoming higher and higher and then dying out entirely. The
clouds, however, soon drifted away, the sun appeared as bright and
beautiful as summer--almost persuading us to take off our coats.
Disheartened at the coquettish nature of the weather, we gave it up. Not
a bird to be seen--we took our bottles, and throwing our heads back on
our shoulders, tried to look through the bottoms of them--they in turn
gave out a gurgling sound of complaining emptiness. We fell into a
refreshing sleep; the hours passed away unheeded, until we were

awakened by the rustling of the reeds bending in the breeze, whispering
of the coveted blow. Heavy black clouds were gathering, and soon old
Boreas came cracking out from the right point of the compass.
This aroused the ducks in the open water to flight, and they came in,
seeking the shelter of the shore--a fatal protection. Charles, the original
explorer of the Sound as a sporting place, and founder of the "Raymond
Hall" Club, did some good work--taking them, right and left, with each
barrel, and dropping single blue-winged teal with unerring aim.
Theodoric is the most amiable, patient friend imaginable; can conduct a
bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much.
He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be
constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in cleaning
his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing process, and
on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.
"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he goes.
Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.
On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger
than the bore, it refused to go.
[Illustration: "I KNEW IT WOULD COME OUT."]
"You won't, won't you," said he, as he raised it aloft and brought it
down with all his might on the floor. It went in; but the gun bulged just
as any good gun will do, and the eruption yet stands on the barrel, a
monument of his determination.
Steve was called in, and a pulling match ensued. Steve had hold of the
gun and Thee firmly clenched the rod. The gun could stand the
combined strength of two powerful men no better than it could resist
the jamming of the rod, and they parted. Steve went backwards over
Mary Rogers, a dog, and took a moist seat in a tub of warm water,
which had been prepared for cleaning guns. Steve said the water was
hot, while our fastidious friend looked bland, gathered himself up from
out a pile of empty shells, mixed with scraps of red flannel and oil-rags,

and said "I knew it would come out."
Josephus, the great Canarsie fisherman, is not an enthusiast about
gunning, and left his sporting traps at home. He only went down for a
few days' fishing, and was prepared to take large numbers of bluefish.
Armed with a stout line and squid, he invited us over to see him do it.
The ocean was rough, and came rolling up in long heavy swells; the
fish were far out at sea. After getting his line arranged to his
satisfaction, he took firm hold of it a few feet above the squid; we all
looked admiringly on. By a series of dexterous gyrations about his head
he sent it flying a hundred feet out into the water--it was beautifully
done. Skillfully he hauled it in, hand over hand. The squid followed, as
bright and shining as when he had cast it out, but no fish. He made
ready again, and with that nonchalant air of a man who feels perfectly
sure that he can do just what he wants to, he gave it that preparatory
whirling motion again, and away it went.
The best efforts will fail sometimes, and the most skillful are often
doomed to disappointment--it was so in this case. The hook did not go
for a blue fish, but fastened itself in the leg of a too confiding dog that