bush 'thout hot water than Warry Hilliams can kill
anything goin' faster than three-legged deer.

"Rust! Youse might 'a well try to catch a _habitaw_ goin' to a weddin'
'thout more ribbons on his bridle 'n' harness than his gal has on her
gown 's hunt for rust in a hot-watered gun!"

Catching a hint of a yarn, I asked if there were many three-legged deer
in the bush.

"W'an't but one ever, far 's I know," he replied. "'N' almighty lucky it
was for Warry that one come a-limpin' along his way, for it give him th'
only chance he'll probably ever have to say he got to shoot a deer.

"Warry? Why he's jest the best ever happened--'t least the best ever
happened 'round this end o' the bush. Lives down to----; better not tell
you right where he lives, for I stirred up th' letters in his name, so 'f
any of his friends heerd you tell th' story they won't know it's on
_him_; fer he's jest that good I'd rather hurt anybody, 'cept my woman or
bird, than hurt him.

"Warry! Why, with a rod 'n' line 'n' reel, whether it's with flies,
spoons, or minnows, castin' or trollin', or spearin' or nettin', Warry's
th' _ex_pertest fish-catcher that ever waded the rapids or paddled th'
lakes o' this old Province o' Quebec. But it's gettin' a _leetle_ hard
for Warry late years--fish 's come to know him so well that after he's
made a few casts 'n' hooked one or two that's got away, they know his
tricks so well they just passes the word 'round, 'n' it's 'pike' for th'
pike, 'beat it' for th' bass, 'trot' for th' trout, 'n' 'skip' for the
salmon, until now, after th' first day or two, 'bout all Warry can get in
reach of 's mud turtles.

"'N'd that's what comes o' knowin' too much and gettin' too _damned_
smart--nobody or nothin' left to play with! Warry? Why, say, if he'd
only knowed it thirty or forty years ago, Warry had th' chance to live 'n
die with th' _re_pute o' bein' th' greatest sport specialist that ever
busted through the Quebec bush--if he'd only jest kept to fishin'. But
the hell o' it is, Warry's always had a fool idee in his head he can
hunt, 'n' he can't, can't sort o' begin to hunt! 'N' darned if I could
ever quite figure out why, 'n' him so smart, 'nless because he goes
poundin' through the bush like a bunch o' shantymen to their choppin',
with his head stuck in his stummick, studyin' some new trick to play on a
trout, makin' so much noise th' deer must nigh laugh theirselves to death
at _him_ a-packin' o' a gun.