Ted had had an awakening.
Four days after he sent Nels to work for the Beamish party, Nels had
come back singing their praises in the loftiest tones. They were all
gentlemen of the highest order. Nobody cared what he cooked as long as
there was plenty of whatever it was. Driving Nels into Lorton, Mr.
Strickland had asked him to order groceries and had paid the rather
large bill without a murmur. That night they'd voted him the best camp
cook they ever saw and given him a ten-dollar tip.
Of course, they were a little bit queer. He'd told them his name at
least a dozen times, but everybody insisted on calling him Hjalmar. They
pronounced it exactly as it was spelled, too. Nels didn't mind because
Hjalmar was certainly a fine old name. But it had taken him almost a day
to get used to it.
They were wonderful hunters, especially that Mr. Beamish. The first day
he'd shot five grouse, the second seven, and on the two succeeding days
he'd shot five and seven. That made twenty-three grouse in four days
and he'd used just thirty-two shells. It must be some kind of record or
something, Nels didn't know. However, each day everyone else in the
party had paid Mr. Beamish money. Nels understood if Mr. Beamish scored
too many misses, he'd have to pay all the others. Still singing the
praises of the Beamish party, Nels hurried off to resume his duties with
them.
Ted was left to ponder a problem that he had hoped he would never have
to face.
Too many people--who were too often intelligent people--took game laws
far too lightly. They shot what they wished when they wished to, and few
of them ever thought that they were doing any wrong. Actually, in every
sense of the word, they were thieves. Bag and possession limits, insofar
as it was humanly possible to apportion wild game justly, were provided
so everyone might have a share and still leave some behind. Who took
more than his share, took from all the others.
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, it was the duty of anyone who knew of game
law violations to report the violator to the nearest warden so the
proper action could be taken. But how could Ted report Arthur Beamish's
when Beamish was his guest? The boy still hadn't made a decision when,
the next day, Loring Blade came in.
The warden said quietly, "I've been watching the grouse hunters in your
camp."
"You have?"
"Yes, and I arrested one of them this morning, a man named Beamish. He's
killed nineteen grouse that I know of, seven over anything he should
have had, in four days."