But here his head was abruptly withdrawn and an amusing colloquy ensued in the next room.
I turned out and soon joined them. Shin and B. were old friends; both, too, were "old Californians." The conversation of an old Californian is generally amusing. And so, another cup of coffee, and another yarn; and another yarn, and yet another cup of coffee, prolonged breakfast far into the morning.
Our plan of campaign was to drive slowly to Soda Springs and back, halting to shoot when and wherever we heard quail calling. Early in the afternoon, a buggy drawn by two horses appeared at the gate; and, lighting our pipes, we started. Scarcely had we left the outlying cottages a hundred yards behind us when:
"Quails!" said B.
"H'm—quails, sure!" coincided Shin judicially.
I said, "quails!" also, although without any very definite reason for doing so.
We pulled up.
"Hush!" whispered B.
"Hush!" repeated the giant.
I also said, "hush!" The driver made the same pertinent observation—the only remark he contributed that day. Then we all "hushed" in chorus, which started the horses, and quieted the quails. (Par parenthèse, may I inquire if you ever hush, when told to do so? Systematic experiments upon all sorts and conditions of people have led me to conclude that the impulse to "hush" back at once is one that human nature cannot resist.)