To tell you all that we said before we had finished with this would be worse than useless—it would be profane; enough that I stuck to the conclusion I had reached when I read the section in the East—no hunting anything anywhere for anybody until 1912. On the strength of it I had left my rifle at home and brought only my fishing rod.
“If it is your way,” said Scipio, “what do you make of section 26? ‘It shall be unlawful for any person or persons to hunt, pursue or kill any elk, deer or mountain sheep except from September twenty-fifth to November thirtieth of each year.’” He yelled the last two words at me.
But I merely clapped my hands to my brow.
“And if it is your way,” Scipio pursued, playing his ace, “what do you make of Honey Wiggin taking a party out next Monday for six weeks?”
“Why, they’ll simply all be arrested.”
“No; they’ll not. I’ve saw Honey’s license with this year stamped in red figures right acrost it, just as plain as headlines.”
What could one reply to that? I picked up the pamphlet and stared at the page.
Scipio ruminated. “Will you tell me,” he said, “why, in a country where everybody’s born equal, the legislature should be a bigger fool than anybody else?”
“It’s a free country,” I reminded him. “Every man has the right to be an ass here.”
But Scipio still brooded. “Well,” he said, “if I was a legislator—” he stopped.