“A very good chance. You have only to take a good look at me.”
“Are—you—Mr.—Webster?” faltered the young men simultaneously.
“Men call me so,” answered the statesman, enjoying the confusion of the young men.
They attempted to apologize for the liberty they had taken, and the great mistake they had made, but without much success, and notwithstanding the good-natured manner in which their excuses were received by Mr. Webster, were glad when they were out of his presence.
I cannot resist the temptation to record another amusing incident in the summer life of Mr. Webster. One day he had gone to Chelsea Beach to shoot wild fowl. While lying among the tall grass he watched from his concealment the flocks of birds as they flew over the beach and adjacent waters. A flock appeared flying quite low, and he lowered the muzzle of his gun below the horizontal range to bring the birds before his eye. He fired, and instantly there was a loud cry proceeding from the beach below. In alarm Mr. Webster rushed down the bank, and descried a stranger rubbing his face and shoulder ruefully. The sportsman himself was not looking his best. His raiment was disordered and his face was begrimed with powder.
“My dear sir,” he inquired anxiously, “did I hit you?”
The man answered resentfully, “Yes, you did hit me; and, from your looks, I should think that I am not the first man you have shot, either.”