Well, he heard about what a good--that I was pretty lucky
when it come to shootin' wild geese, and I'm blessed if he didn't send
me orders to get him one for a dinner he was goin' to give. Didn't
ask--ORDERED me to do it, you understand. And him nothin' but a
consignee, with no more control over me than the average female
Sunday-school teacher has over a class of boys. Not so much, because
she's supposed to have official authority, and he wa'n't. AND he didn't
invite me to the dinner.
"Well, the next time my friend, the ex-consul, and I went out gunnin',
I told him of the Englishman's 'orders.' He was mad. 'What are you goin'
to do about it?' he asks. 'Don't know yet,' says I, 'we'll see.' By and
by we come in sight of one of them long-legged cranes, big birds you
know, standin' fishin' at the edge of some reeds. I up with my gun and
shot it. The consul chap looked at me as if I was crazy. 'What in the
world did you kill that fish-basket on stilts for?' he says. 'Son,'
says I, 'your eyesight is bad. That's a British-American goose. Chop off
about three feet of neck and a couple of fathom of hind legs and pick
and clean what's left, and I shouldn't wonder if 'twould make a good
dinner for a mutual friend of ours--good ENOUGH, anyhow.' Well, sir!
that ex-consul set plump down in the mud and laughed and laughed.
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