for a real, honest-to-goodness camp this time, we found ourselves in a veritable bower. The canal lay in a narrow valley with the shore on either side rising in high bluffs. Just as the sun was setting we came to several cottages and spying, near one of them, an attractive looking spot, decided to investigate. However, a "one lunged" (the Captain's expression, not mine) launch filled with a load of darkies, hailed us and offered a tow.

Did we accept it? after a day's paddling against wind and tide? We hesitated only long enough to ask if there were good camping places farther on and receive the reply "Sure, lots of 'em."

Tied to that noisy launch we traveled two or three miles until the occupants of it reached their destination. Untying our tow rope they left us with the information that there was an old office built about one hundred years ago when the canal was built for a pay station but not used now, short distance below, where we could camp. "Jes' open de do' and dar's a fine bed an' a stove to cook on," shouted one of the darkies as we paddled off.

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We found the "office" and we opened the door and inside we found a bed and a stove-but they all looked as if the darkey and his friends had made the place a rendezvous for the a rendezvous for the whole lifetime of the place.

So we

"No, thanks," said the Captain. "No, thanks," I echoed. pitched our own little tent outside, cooked on our own cooking irons, and slept in our own blankets on the nice hard earth.

Have you ever fasted for so many hours that the hungry feeling all passed away and you did not realize you were hungry until the large amounts of food had disappeared? This night there was hardly a word spoken until, all at once, the Captain looked at me and I looked at him and we suddenly discovered that the huge plates of potatoes and bacon before us had somehow vanished.

Some time during the night we were awakened by voices and bright lights. Peering out, there was a real, live

double-decked steamboat passing, right on top of us it seemed. 'Twas a queer sight. The boat must have been almost as wide as the canal and we could have run and jumped on. No mule-drawn tow boats on this canal, apparently. It was a real waterway and river boats passed through under their own steam, limited, however, to four miles an hour speed.

The Last Stretch

In the morning launches and produce boats passed-first one way and then another. At short distances apart there were-well, we call them sidings on railroad tracks—where one boat would wait for the other to pass.

By eight o'clock we had struck camp and were off on our last stretchthe four or five miles to Chesapeake City. Through many states we had traveled on this short trip. We started in New York, crossed New Jersey, paddled down the shore of Pennsylvania and Delaware, across Delaware, and then, this last morning, across the border line into Maryland.

One more adventure were we to have before we returned to routine life in New York. Arrived at Chesapeake City we piled our duffle on the edge of the canal and the Captain departed to inquire the direction to Elkton where we were told the railroad was. I began carrying duffle around the lock only to be met by the Captain with instructions to take it back again. "The paddle up to Elkton is useless," said he. "We would have to paddle against the current and tide and then, next trip, come back down again to cross Chesapeake Bay to Baltimore where we were to ship to Washington and go up the Potomac to Cumberland."

The Captain hunted up a lock. tender who he had been told, had a boat house and we bade farewell to "The Chippewa" for the winter. 'Tis careless treatment that boat gets for we even forgot to inquire what the lock-tender's name might be. letter addressed to "Lock-tender" reached him, however).

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But about our adventure. Learning that an automobile bus left at one o'clock for the Elkton train we sat us down on our packs and pulled out our crackers and cheese-the last of our food supply. So indifferent does one become, even in a few days, to time and train schedules that we loitered longer than we realized.

Finally the Captain picked up a pack and started off for the bus station. I sat watching him and soon saw him dash frantically back and forth from one building to another. More out of curiosity than alarm I picked up the remains of the duffle and started out.

Soon he reappeared and waved frantically to me to "come on." I did. He then informed me that the bus had left, (and I realized that I had seen something that looked like a bus drive by) we had only half an hour to make the train and he had found a man to drive us over.

And that's all of that chapter! (We never like to count the ride back to New York.) It is much pleasanter to forget it if we can. With a deep sigh of regret that winter would prevent any more cruises for a few months we boarded the train for New York and work.

slipped quietly down stairs, picked up my rod and reel, and hurried across the fields toward a slough about two miles distant, where the evening before I had seen many bass feeding. It was an ideal morning for fishing, and upon reaching the slough my enthusiasm rose when I saw a big bass break water close to the opposite bank.

Quickly running the line through the guides, I reached into my coat pocket for the little leather case that holds an underwater minnow and a surface wobbler, and then I said things for I had forgotten to bring my baits. Some minutes passed while I stood there raving about my absent-mindedness, when another bass flopped out of the water almost at my feet and started me on a search that brought from one of my fishing coat pockets two hooks stuck in a cork.

After attaching one of the hooks to the line I started along shore in search of a frog. I don't believe in using live frogs for bait, but any that I might get, I thought, would be quite dead, for I intended swatting with a stick the first one I might see.

I walked slowly along the bank,

time saw my frog sitting on a bit of driftwood that lay close to the water. Dropping to my knees, I began to stalk that frog, but as I raised the stick he dove into the water and right before my eyes a bass grabbed him. Never before had I seen fish so ready to bite, and I wanted a bait more than ever, but try as I would I could not get a frog.

I was about ready to give up, when the idea struck me to make a bait, and thinking of how bass will strike at a pork rind and how much a partly peeled piece of potato would resemble a strip of pork, I ran back into the field and soon had a potato, and in a few minutes had cut a bait and was ready to go after those bass that had, it seemed, been laughing at me.

My third cast brought a strike, but as my hook was in the front end of the bait I missed hooking him, and when the same thing happened again a short time later, I stopped casting long enough to bind together the two hooks in the form of a tandem, the forward hook pointing up and the other down. Then I cut a new bait with a wide, sloping head, to give it a

through with creditable scores, though many fall down hard, particularly when conditions of weather or range are not favorable. No one who does, however, is a dependable shot. Calculating from the reports published, it is found that the average Marksman qualification score probably is about 160; the average Sharpshooter score about 162; and the average Expert score about 164. That these figures are lower than they need be is proved by the groups on the targets, which almost always are smaller than the scores indicate. Many points are lost by reason of all the bullets striking low or high or to a side. The elevations are not right for the distance, the light, the wind, the ammunition used, the heat of the barrel, the condition of the sights and other factors, and the windage is not right for the particular wind blowing. Good sighting and holding are partly wasted because of poor adjustment.

The remedy for the trouble is an evening's careful study of the score book, ballistic and other data that may be available, and then tests on the range to confirm the conclusions formed. It does not take a great deal of shooting to bring out the errors and to eliminate them when each shot is fired intelligently.

The first step is to zero* the rifle to be used. To do this with the degree of nicety desirable the target should be in the shade, the firing point in the shade (as under an open shed), the sights should be blackened, and a firm rest should be secured for the upper arms as well as for the hand holding the barrel. The work can be done outdoors entirely, or out from under shelters or trees, if the day is dull and cloudy.

It is best to do the shooting for

this purpose on a still day, though a careful man can get satisfactory results even in a wind. The range should be comparatively short-say 200 yards and strict attention should be paid to each quarter of an inch of deviation of the group. Groups that measure two to three inches horizontally at 200 yards should be secured. These points do not a-b-c the process, nor finish it, but are so important that they should not be overlooked by

anyone.

The operation of zeroing the rifle should be separate from that of getting the normal elevation. When the former is finished, proceed with the latter. Shoot at the shortest distance you intend to cover. Usually this will be 200 yards, but in many instances it may be only 50 yards, or 100 yards. The conditions under which the shooting is done should be the same as before, including the shade or the cloudy day. The bull shot at should be small, but not too small. The standard of four inches for each 100 yards is a good one to maintain.

For qualification purposes the hold at the bottom of the bull cannot be

improved upon with a bead or military sight. The ammunition used should be that which it is planned to use for record purposes, and should be lubrithrough the season. cated or not, as intended to be used

When the bullets strike the center

of the bull regularly, the elevation should be noted carefully, and all other adjustments should be based on this one. Krag and Springfield rifle sights are

so made that if the elevations are much stamped figures, the slide can be different from those indicated by the marked with a knife opposite the proper mark on the sight arms. Few

I point right windage. I have a .22 Hi-Power Savage which zeros away off to the left of the center-line of the barrel. If I did not have a windgauge sight on it, I would have to bend the rear sight to get it over enough. The zero of a military rifle can always be found by moving the windgauge screw of the rear sight. Many hunting rifles not provided with windgauge sights can be adjusted in this respect by driving the front sight one way or the other in the slots. J. R. M.