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At times R.C. when he was tired fell victim to discouragement and he would make some caustic remark: "I don't know about you. I've a hunch you like to pack a rifle because it's heavy. And you go dreaming along! Sometime a bear will rise up and swipe you one!" Takahashi passed from concern to grief over what he considered my bad luck: "My goodnish!
We reached camp before sunset, where I had to endure the felicitations of R.C. and my comrades, all of whom were delighted that at last I had gotten a buck. Takahashi smiled all over his broad brown face. "My goodnish! I awful glad! Nice fat deer!"
I had to explain to Takahashi that this practice consisted of shooting a bullet to hit the bark right under the squirrel, and the concussion would so stun it that it would fall as if dead. "Aw my goodnish your daddy more better shot than you!" ejaculated Takahashi. "Yes indeed he was," I replied, reflectively, as in a flash the long-past boyhood days recurred in memory.
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