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diff --git a/78765-0.txt b/78765-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..522ea98 --- /dev/null +++ b/78765-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,334 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78765 *** + + DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY + + W. C. Tuttle + + The ducks were here by the millions. Sure + everybody got their limit + + +“And it came to pass in those days that there was a tribe of men +called Dukklubbers, who were open of face and of apparent veracity. +Their smiles were as the sun shining through a cloud, and of promises +they were as full as the sea of fishes. + +“But behold, they prophesied only of things that happened yesterday and +of the day before, levying their tribute heavily upon the tribe called +Dukhunters, who were fools and of abiding faith, paying willingly, yea +even to paying their tribute in advance that they might partake of the +winged web-footed creatures which swam upon the waters of the earth. + +“But behold, the Dukhunters were of a great wrath, because of the +winged creatures there were none and the tribute had been enormous. And +they went away filled with a great wrath and swore many things. But the +Dukklubbers were of great cheer because they were very wise, knowing +much about the Dukhunters. Among this knowledge was the fact that the +Dukhunter was a great fool, and as soon as his wrath subsided he would +again open his ears to their prophecy and come back, bearing tribute. +And they knew no man might deny their prophecy nor prove it untrue, +because they prophesied only of things that came to pass yesterday and +the day before.” + + --From the Book of E. Z. Mark, who had been jobbed. + + * * * * * + +Telephone conversation via long-distance: + +“Hello, Ed? Bill talking. How are they coming?” + +“Fine, Bill. Lotsa sprig.” + +“How much for four blinds tomorrow?” + +“Sixty bucks.” + +“Be with you about midnight. Looks good, eh?” + +“Ought to be. Good-by.” + +Ensues two hundred and thirty miles of auto travel--a search in the +night for that darned dirt road, in which everybody loses all sense of +direction; eventually the right road, and the club. Ed is there with a +lantern. + +“Hello, Ed, old boy!” + +“Gentlemen!” + +“How does she look, Eddie?” + + * * * * * + +“Well, I’ll tell you. This morning some of the boys had fair luck. +Yesterday wasn’t bad at all, but _day before yesterday_--Oh, boy!” + +And there you are. The duck we got that day cost us just exactly one +hundred dollars--and it was a spoonbill. And not a fat spoonie, either. +But we didn’t kick because we belonged to the tribe called Dukhunters. +If we had been there _day before yesterday_--Oh, boy! They say it was +great. + +For seven seasons I have dipped my boots in nearly every duck-puddle +from Ensenada, Baja California, to the mythical dead-line between Los +Angeles and San Francisco, possibly caused by the fact that Los Angeles +folks speak of the big earthquake instead of the fire. I am known as an +omnivorous duck hunter--a dreamer of duck dreams in which a limit of +birds is the _piece de resistance_. + +They say there are thousands of ducks just south of Bakersfield. It +fires my imagination, and I hie me to a certain sporting goods house +where everybody talks ducks. I pay my fifteen dollars for a Sunday +blind. And about noon of that day I get so darned mad that I shoot an +unsuspecting mud-hen and go home. It has cost me about thirty dollars +for that mud-hen. + +They say the ducks are coming in by the thousands in the Wasco country, +a mere 200-mile trip--about thirty miles of curves on the top of the +world, a drag of thirty miles through the worst silt muck you have ever +seen in anybody’s country, if it rains. But I go. Yeah, verily I go. + +“There were quite a few ducks here yesterday, but if you had been here +_day before yesterday_--Well, it was the best flight you ever saw.” + +“How about tomorrow?” + +“We-e-ll, I don’t know. They seem to have pulled out for some reason or +other.” + +Los Banos! Ah, there’s a word to conjure with. A place to fill a duck +hunter’s heart with delight. A phone call brings the information that +the place is filled with birds. In fact, the Chamber of Commerce has +had a crew of men digging extra ponds for two weeks to accommodate the +increase of ducks from the north. + +Los Banos is only a mere three hundred miles. What are three hundred +miles to a duck or a hunter? It is a simple matter to make reservations. +The ride is nothing. Tomorrow we will each shoot a limit. Twenty-five +ducks! Anticipation is at high ebb. + +And then we talk to the keeper. It is seldom that the owner shows up. +The keeper is usually an inoffensive ex-carpenter from Iowa, who is not +to blame. + + * * * * * + +“Well,” sez ’e, “I didn’t see many today. Quite a lot of ’em yesterday, +but _day before yesterday_ you could knock ’em down with a club.” + +All my life I’ve wished for a chance to go hunting day before yesterday, +but I’m always two days too late. And then there’s the claim agents to +contend with. There are always several of them on hand. + +I have found that the way to get ducks is to wait until the other +fellows get a whack into ’em, knocking several, fire your gun into +the air and yell, “I got two!” Then go and get ’em. Of course, if you +shoot a pump or an automatic you may claim more. I’ve been claimed +out of more ducks than any man alive, and it is because I’m so damned +astonished when I do knock a duck that I forget to yell first. + +My last experience was at the Westfield club, run by my good friend +Charley Buttles. Yes, Charley speaks very affectionately of day before +yesterday, just like the rest. + +Anyway, my shooting partner and I were in a double blind, when a flock +of sprig hit the water about forty yards away. About a hundred and +twenty-five yards away was another double blind. For some unknown +reason, one of the occupants of those blinds stood up and threw a load +of shot at the ducks, none of which registered. + +The sprig hopped up and swung toward us--one of those things you dream +about. I doubled on two bull sprig, while my partner emptied his +automatic. + +“How many did you get?” he asked me, and I told him I killed two. + +“Fine!” says he. “I got four.” + + * * * * * + +But before we could make a move to get out of the blind, those two claim +agents were coming on the run. “I got one with each barrel, and you got +four with your pump,” one of them yells. “Boy, that’s shootin’!” + +I looked at Fred, and Fred looked at me. They were big fellows, those +claim agents. + +[Illustration: They were big fellows, those claim agents] + +“How do yuh get that way?” demanded Fred. “We killed all those ducks.” + +“Well, of all the nerve!” says one of ’em. “Imagine that!” + +And they went back to their blind with the ducks while everybody, except +Fred and me, laughed. + +A few minutes later, along came a lone spoonie. He was so high that he +looked like a sparrow. But I was mad, and when he came over me I knocked +him for a loop with my Super Magnum, or whatever they call it. Anyway, +it shoots three-inch shells. + +The spoonie died in his tracks and hit the muck about twenty feet from a +single blind, a hundred yards away. I got up and said to the wide world, +“If there’s no argument, I’d like to have that bird.” + +[Illustration: “If there’s no argument, I’d like to have that bird”] + +“What bird?” asks a distant voice, and I saw the owner of that blind in +the act of picking up my bird. + +“Oh,” says I sweetly, “did you kill it?” + +“Who in hell do you think killed it?” says he, and took it back to his +blind. + +What could I do? A check of the shooters later on showed a ten-to-one +opinion that the man never even fired his gun. But he got the duck. +Personally, I think he’s the man who is usually designated as “they,” +the party they speak of when remarking “They say,” etc. So much for +claim agents. + +But don’t misconstrue me. There are limits of birds in California. It +may be proved by pictures. In fact, I have been a party to such +pictures. The last one I was in on has already been published twice in +daily papers. It shows a well-known sportsman with a limit of ducks. +There were thirty of us hunters who contributed all our opening-day +shoot to make up that limit. You will think it queer that thirty men +could contribute a limit of ducks when the limit is twenty-five birds. +But the fact of the matter is, in some cases as high as three men held +certain claims on a single duck. + +In seven years of duck shooting my birds have cost me on an average +of seven dollars per duck. Perhaps it is lucky for me that I never +have shot--and kept--a limit. And I’m not the worst shot in the +world. Figuring my ability from an army standard, I’m possibly a top +sergeant. At times I’m a lowly private, and again I’m a Brigadier +General. And once in a while I become Commander-in-Chief. + +[Illustration: All he needs is their address] + +Following the claim agent, or preceding him, as the case may be, comes +the high shooter. He is a person who goes out to shoot just for the fun +of shooting. Without the slightest conception of how far a shotgun will +boost a load of shot, he shoots as long as he can see the bird. All he +needs is their address. And sometimes he finishes up his bombardment by +drawing a six-shooter and giving the birds a final salute. For fifteen +dollars per day he can ruin the shooting for more men than a heavy fog +in the San Joaquin on Sunday. + +But in spite of it all, we got our limit one day. Of course, nobody +believes we did. Before old Buena Vista Lake dried up, my shooting +partner and myself managed to knock down fifty birds, and we were +looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. + +There was an even dozen of mallard drakes, fifteen bull sprig, and the +rest were hen sprig and widgeon. Oh, they were nice! We carried ’em +concealed in a sack, for fear of meeting a claim agent. + +It was a long way home; so we decided to spend the night at the home +of a friend, who lived in a rather isolated spot. We drew the ducks, +tied their necks together and hung them over a clothes-line. Our host +said they’d dry out very cold. They did--very. + +[Illustration: I looked at the cat and drew my own conclusions] + +In the morning the twelve mallard drakes and the fifteen bull sprig +were not on the line. After due deliberation, our host decided that +the cat got ’em. I looked at the cat and drew my own conclusions. It +may have been a very smart cat, and no doubt it was, because our host +told us a number of stories of the cat’s prowess. But I’ll be hanged +if I’m gullible enough to think any cat could select all those choice +ducks and tie up the bunches again. Still, I may not know much about +cats. + + * * * * * + +But those are merely the things you have to contend with. If I could +only find a duck club where there are no high shooters, no claim agents, +no cats, and get a chance to shoot there day before yesterday--Oh, boy! + +But I’ll go again because I belong to the tribe called Dukhunters, and +the Dukklubbers will probably get me as long as I live--but they can’t +deny me free speech. + +Of course, I do not mean to say that all duck-club managers use the “day +before yesterday” alibi. There was one who was much more conservative. +Certainly, his was an exclusive place, with accommodations for only +eight shooters. + +This place, as he explained it, was the _pluribus peritonitis_ of all +clubs. One needed to furnish references in order to secure reservations. +No one except dyed-in-the-wool duck hunters need apply, and one must +agree to abide by the law regarding the sunrise and sunset regulation +bag limit, etc. + +Parentage, religious affiliations, financial standing, shooting ability +and general conduct were scrutinized. I heard later that halitosis was +sufficient cause for refusal to accept application. In fact, one man was +refused on the grounds that in 1880 his grandfather spat on a sidewalk. + +Oh, it was easy to see that this was worth trying for. And I made it. My +friend said it was a lucky fluke that they got my name spelled wrong and +looked up another man’s record. + +Anyway, I rather gloated over the rest of the gang, who merely paid +fifteen dollars to shoot at an ordinary commercial club where there +were only sprig, teal and widgeon. I think I bored them with my talk +of mallards. There is something noble about a mallard. + +I had made my reservations early, and lived in a flutter of excitement +for two months. At last came the day before the opening, and we packed +the old car full of the usual impedimenta of two anticipating hunters +who have purchased everything with which to annihilate the festive +water-fowl. I had invested in a made-to-order double gun--one of those +80-yard super guns, bored for 3-inch cases and adorned with a single +trigger which, by the way, got a nasty habit of doubling. And if you +think a double of 3-inch heavy loads is any loving caress, try it. + +But I digress. We arrived safely, after 150 miles of driving over rather +bad roads. But one must suffer a little, I suppose, while mallarding. + +“Aha!” says I, “We’ve got the old alibi whipped this time. It’s the +opening day, and he won’t dare mention the day before yesterday.” + +The opening day broke well. At least we had the satisfaction of knowing +that something broke well. There were eight of us tucked away in those +exclusive blinds, waiting for the zero hour, tuned to the minute. It was +the day of days. + +Daylight came apace, as they say; but that was all that came. The +quack of the festive mallard soundeth not. A few mud hens, like dusky +harbingers of disappointment, jerked their way along the rushes, but +the horizon was unmarked by the wavering strings of mallards as per +the night-before conversation. + +We spent a quiet morning consuming much tobacco, nursing grouches and +working up a killing complex against all duck liars. + +My friend met me near the little clubhouse. His eyes held a lust for +gore. + +“By the blankety-blank horns on the sacred toad,” quoth he, “this is +another of those things, Bill. But there is one satisfaction. The old +alibi won’t work this time. There was no day before yesterday in this +duck season.” + +John was right. We found the keeper of the club, and he shook his head +sadly. One could see that he was sorry. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “I really don’t understand it. On the opening day +last year, with eight men in the blinds--” + +But why repeat a lie? + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + + Transcriber’s Note + + This story appeared in the November, 1927 issue of Field and + Stream magazine. This story is believed to be in the public + domain in the United States. Please note that copyright status + may differ in other countries. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78765 *** |