d be met on equal
terms. The hunting feature was always preserved, though few of the
older members ever joined in the sport. Under the rules there was a
place, a day and an hour for the weekly meet; and I remember when it
was a safe thing to be at "the White Bridge" on the Santee Canal any
Saturday morning at nine o'clock. Somebody was sure to be there with
dogs and driver, prepared for a "wallet-hunt"--i.e., an all-day hunt
with wallets at the crupper well filled with hunter's cheer. Once a
month the club met for dinner, each member "finding" in turn, and
on that day a single drive, or at most two, was all that could be
enjoyed. The club-house was a plain frame building in the woods, with
a huge fireplace at each end, heavy stationary pine table extending
the length of the room, and broad soft-pine benches. The dishes,
wines, liquors and cigars were all specified in the rules, the
finder being allowed two extra dishes at will, and supplying all the
crockery, cutlery and glass. The kitchen was a rough shed close to the
cool and shaded spring of pure, clear water. Being myself but a guest,
I have not the privilege of extending an invitation to the reader;
so, by his leave, we will drop the present tense and I will assume the
part of _raconteur_. How vividly do the scenes of that day come back
through the highways of memory, crowded as they are with experiences
of more than twenty varied years! As I rode up to the bridge on that
bright December morning I found a party which promised rare sport.
There was Kit Gillam with his crooked nose, and Tom Clifton with his
deadly Manton and fine cry of dogs, and cheery Jack Parker, who hunted
only for the good company, and whose gun was as likely as not to be
unloaded when the deer came out to him. Two drives were decided on
which might be relied on for shooting, and yet were small enough to
give ample time for reaching the club-house before dinner.

As we rode toward our stands I thought it a good chance to settle
a point which had long excited my curiosity. "Kit," said I, "I have
often wondered how your nose got out of plumb. What caused it?"

"When I was a little bit of a boy I fell down and stepped on it."

This very satisfactory explanation brought us to our ground, and
we were soon at our respective stands and listening eagerly for the
trail-notes of the old hounds. The deer have regular runs, from which
they rarely deviate, and which do not vary in the course of years.
The