Putting a Stop to Gunners’ Yarns
Canon, the well-known painter, who died recently, was an enthusiastic gunner. Often during the gunning season he would join other friends of the sport at the hotel, and experiences would be exchanged. Now Canon hated all extravagant, impossible yarns, and one evening when some gunners tried to outdo each other, his patience gave way. His strong voice rose above the din, and everybody listened to the following story: “My setter dog,” he began, “has the finest sense of smell; a finer does not exist. One day we were out partridge hunting, but had no luck; after a three hours’ tramp not a shot had been fired. Suddenly my dog stood still, and then began scratching at the root of a small bush. We approached cautiously. The dog kept on digging, and after he had made quite a hole, one of us went up and helped him. All of a sudden he brought to me—a new porcelain pipe with a partridge painted on it. I always carry it with me as a souvenir.” He put his hand in his pocket and laid the pipe on the table. Shouts of laughter greeted it, but there were no more gunning yarns after that.