Mr. Munchausen. Bangs John Kendrick

to myself, and set about loading my own gun. Would you believe it, I found that my last bullet was the one with which I had saved the balloon from the Prussian shot?”

      “Mercy, how careless of you, Uncle Munch!” said one of the Twins. “What did you do?”

      “I threw out a bag of sand ballast so that the balloon would rise just out of range of their guns, and then, as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, I reached out and caught them in a dipper. Rather neat idea, eh? With these I loaded my own rifle and shot every one of the hostile party with their own ammunition, and when the last of the attacking Arabs dropped I found there were enough bullets left to fill the empty sand bag again, so that the lost ballast was not missed. In fact, there were enough of them in weight to bring the balloon down so near to the earth that our anchor rope dangled directly over the encampment, so that my valet and I, without wasting any of our gas, could climb down and secure all the magnificent treasures in rugs and silks and rare jewels these robbers of the desert had managed to get together in the course of their depredations. When these were placed in the car another breeze came up, and for the rest of the time we drifted idly about in the heavens waiting for a convenient place to land. In this manner we were blown hither and yon for three months over land and sea, and finally we were wrecked upon a tall tree in India, whence we escaped by means of a convenient elephant that happened to come our way, upon which we rode triumphantly into Calcutta. The treasures we had secured from the Arabs, unfortunately, we had to leave behind us in the tree, where I suppose they still are. I hope some day to go back and find them.”

      Here Mr. Munchausen paused for a moment to catch his breath. Then he added with a sigh. “Of course, I went back to France immediately, but by the time I reached Paris the war was over, and the Emperor was in exile. I was too late to save him – though I think if he had lived some sixty or seventy years longer I should have managed to restore his throne, and Imperial splendour to him.”

      The Twins gazed into the fire in silence for a minute or two. Then one of them asked:

      “But what did you live on all that time, Uncle Munch?”

      “Eggs,” said the Baron. “Eggs and occasionally fish. My servant had had the foresight when getting the balloon ready to include, among the things put into the car, a small coop in which were six pet chickens I owned, and without which I never went anywhere. These laid enough eggs every day to keep us alive. The fish we caught when our balloon stood over the sea, baiting our anchor with pieces of rubber gas pipe used to inflate the balloon, and which looked very much like worms.”

      “But the chickens?” said the Twins. “What did they live on?”

      The Baron blushed.

      “I am sorry you asked that question,” he said, his voice trembling somewhat. “But I’ll answer it if you promise never to tell anyone. It was the only time in my life that I ever practised an intentional deception upon any living thing, and I have always regretted it, although our very lives depended upon it.”

      “What was it, Uncle Munch?” asked the Twins, awed to think that the old warrior had ever deceived anyone.

      “I took the egg shells and ground them into powder, and fed them to the chickens. The poor creatures supposed it was corn-meal they were getting,” confessed the Baron. “I know it was mean, but what could I do?”

      “Nothing,” said the Twins softly. “And we don’t think it was so bad of you after all. Many another person would have kept them laying eggs until they starved, and then he’d have killed them and eaten them up. You let them live.”

      “That may be so,” said the Baron, with a smile that showed how relieved his conscience was by the Twins’ suggestion. “But I couldn’t do that you know, because they were pets. I had been brought up from childhood with those chickens.”

      Then the Twins, jamming the Baron’s hat down over his eyes, climbed down from his lap and went to their play, strongly of the opinion that, though a bold warrior, the Baron was a singularly kind, soft-hearted man after all.

      IV

      SOME HUNTING STORIES FOR CHILDREN

      The Heavenly Twins had been off in the mountains during their summer holiday, and in consequence had seen very little of their good old friend, Mr. Munchausen. He had written them once or twice, and they had found his letters most interesting, especially that one in which he told how he had killed a moose up in Maine with his Waterbury watch spring, and I do not wonder that they marvelled at that, for it was one of the most extraordinary happenings in the annals of the chase. It seems, if his story is to be believed, and I am sure that none of us who know him has ever had any reason to think that he would deceive intentionally; it seems, I say, that he had gone to Maine for a week’s sport with an old army acquaintance of his, who had now become a guide in that region. Unfortunately his rifle, of which he was very fond, and with which his aim was unerring, was in some manner mislaid on the way, and when they arrived in the woods they were utterly without weapons; but Mr. Munchausen was not the man to be daunted by any such trifle as that, particularly while his friend had an old army musket, a relic of the war, stored away in the attic of his woodland domicile.

      “Th’ only trouble with that ar musket,” said the old guide, “ain’t so much that she won’t shoot straight, nor that she’s got a kick onto her like an unbroke mule. What I’m most afeard ’on about your shootin’ with her ain’t that I think she’ll bust neither, for the fact is we ain’t got nothin’ for to bust her with, seein’ as how ammynition is skeerce. I got powder, an’ I got waddin’, but I ain’t got no shot.”

      “That doesn’t make any difference,” the Baron replied. “We can make the shot. Have you got any plumbing in the camp? If you have, rip it out, and I’ll melt up a water-pipe into bullets.”

      “No, sir,” retorted the old man. “Plumbin’ is one of the things I came here to escape from.”

      “Then,” said the Baron, “I’ll use my watch for ammunition. It is only a three-dollar watch and I can spare it.”

      With this determination, Mr. Munchausen took his watch to pieces, an ordinary time-piece of the old-fashioned kind, and, to make a long story short, shot for several days with the component parts of that useful affair rammed down into the barrel of the old musket. With the stem-winding ball he killed an eagle; with pieces of the back cover chopped up to a fineness of medium-sized shot he brought down several other birds, but the great feat of all was when he started for moose with nothing but the watch-spring in the barrel of the gun. Having rolled it up as tight as he could, fastened it with a piece of twine, and rammed it well into the gun, he set out to find the noble animal upon whose life he had designs. After stalking the woods for several hours, he came upon the tracks which told him that his prey was not far off, and in a short while he caught sight of a magnificent creature, his huge antlers held proudly up and his great eyes full of defiance.

      For a moment the Baron hesitated. The idea of destroying so beautiful an animal seemed to be abhorrent to his nature, which, warrior-like as he is, has something of the tenderness of a woman about it. A second glance at the superb creature, however, changed all that, for the Baron then saw that to shoot to kill was necessary, for the beast was about to force a fight in which the hunter himself would be put upon the defensive.

      “I won’t shoot you through the head, my beauty,” he said, softly, “nor will I puncture your beautiful coat with this load of mine, but I’ll kill you in a new way.”

      With this he pulled the trigger. The powder exploded, the string binding the long black spring into a coil broke, and immediately the strip of steel shot forth into the air, made directly toward the neck of the rushing moose, and coiling its whole sinuous length tightly about the doomed creature’s throat strangled him to death.

      As the Twins’ father said, a feat of that kind entitled the Baron to a high place in fiction at least, if not in history itself. The Twins were very much wrought up over the incident, particularly, when one too-smart small imp who was spending the summer at the same hotel where they were said that he didn’t believe it, – but he was an imp who had never seen a cheap watch, so how should he know anything about what