mouth before anyone was able to shout a warning.
The cook had soaked a dozen dead woodcock breasts in a marinade. Then he put them inside the woodstove oven. They lay there in that terrible heat for almost two hours before he took them out. Then, without warning or notice any kind, he served them to the entire company - just as if woodcock were edible.
Peabody doesn’t like the taste of woodcock. No, that isn’t right. Peabody detests the taste of woodcock. He has often warned me to turn and run if anyone suggests I take even the tiniest taste of one. He has assured me the flavor of the bird is improved by soaking it in kerosene for five days and then throwing it away.
Thought Peabody spit the disgusting woodcock onto his plate without swallowing, the taste lingered in his mouth and in his memory. It had been a very close call. I’m sure it was this brush with catastrophe that caused Peabody to consider his own mortality and begin to “make provisions”.
As soon as he returned from Maine, he called on Peter Klemmens to take care of his mortal remains. Peter Klemmens is not a funeral director. He is a taxidermist. Peabody was impressed by his work when he saw a deer head mount Peter had done over twelve years ago. Not one hair had fallen out. “When the time comes”, Peter has agreed to stuff the Major for eight dollars an inch.
Peabody felt he had done a good job in negotiating the price. He proudly told me how he was changing his ways and watching his non-hunting expenses.
Providence
Major Nathaniel Peabody and two companions were in a hunting lodge in northwestern Uruguay. They came to hunt the Perdiz runing in the fields surrounding Hector Sarasola’s hunting lodge and the Gray Spotted Pigeons clouding the skies above it. The lodge’s ads assured the hunters they could fire at least two cases of shells per day. Hector confirmed that promise and assured them they would arrive in Uruguay during the most productive part of the season.
This was not the first time Peabody hunted with the other men. They became acquainted in a field full of pheasants in South Dakota. A second meeting took place in a Minnesota grouse camp. This would be their third reunion.
A small chartered plane carried them from the airport at Montevideo to the city of Mercedes where a waiting truck delivered them to Sarasola’s Lodge and their countryside hunting grounds. After promising to re-convene for a pre-dinner period of libation and relaxation, the men went directly to their assigned quarters. The outlook for the three day hunt was most promising.
As Major Peabody unpacked his gear, he reviewed the results of his most recent poker game. It occurred the evening before he left Philadelphia for this hunt. Those results were not entirely satisfactory. Those results were in no way satisfactory. The results were terrible. Peabody had been nearly wiped out.
It was the twenty-fifth day of the month. The Major would be back in Philadelphia one day before the end of the month when his grossly inadequate supply of money would be replenished. In the meantime, however, the Major had to have enough cash to buy shotgun shells, pay for personal expenses and give his Uruguayan guide and the Lodge staff their expected tips.
Even if Peabody limited his shooting and exercised unaccustomed good judgment with regard to non-essential spending, he would still fall far short of the amount he needed. His tiny supply of cash could not be stretched to cover even his absolute minimum projected expenses. “Well,” he said aloud, “I wonder if I could get a bit of help from my friends.” Those prospects were dim, indeed.
Sandy Hausman owned an automobile dealership. Sandy did not have sandy hair. As his surname indicates, he was not a Scot. He was a German. He was not a blond Nordic. He was the black haired, Baltic kind of German. He got the nickname “Sandy” because of his super-frugal nature. The most conservative, close-fisted Scotsman would admire him.
Sandy Hausman was a stingy man. He was often described as “tighter than the bark on a paper birch tree”. He was very good at accumulating money, but an abject failure when it came to disbursing it - any of it. For example, while the three hunters were enjoying libations during their four hour stop-over in Miami, not once did Sandy’s hand find his wallet.
Nevertheless, Major Peabody admired Sandy. He and Sandy once came out of a Minnesota woods and found themselves on a dirt road close to a country tavern. Smelling a bit un-bathed and with a beard grown during a four day Ruffed Grouse hunt, Sandy convinced the bartender he was a man of the cloth and, thus, entitled to what he called “the usual clergyman’s fifteen percent discount on drinks”. You have to admire a man who can do that.
Admirable or not, Sandy Hausman’s record of making loans was perilously close to being completely non-existent. He was known to occasionally - very occasionally - engage in wagering, but only when the potential for loss was minimal. Actually, less than minimal - infinitesimal would be a better description. (And, if possible, less than infinitesimal.) To attempt to pry money from Sandy Hausman was a heroic, Herculean labor.
The other hunter, Steve Gress, was a successful personal injury attorney. Successful personal injury attorneys are experts at scaring the living bejaysus out of casualty insurance companies and doing enormous damage to the reserves established for claim payment. Steve Gress was an expert con artist. He knew all the tricks of deception because he practiced every one of them.
The Major appreciated Gress’s ability to mislead and defraud - characteristics common to all good damage attorneys. He knew the lawyer was very careful when it came to betting. Steve would be a man difficult to outsmart.
When it came to wagering, Peabody, the used car salesman and the personal injury attorney were three of a kind. Each one was cautious. Each one was schooled in duplicity. Each one always assumed his associates had something up their sleeves. Each one was hard to fool. The Major knew he would not have an easy time of it.
Peabody sighed and resigned himself to a week of austerity and, perhaps, some unpleasantness when it came time to pay the bill. “We live in an imperfect world,” he said to himself as he unpacked his gear. He left the room and began to walk to the lodge patio just as Sandy Hausman came into the hallway from the adjoining room.
“How goes it, Major?” he asked, “Ready for tomorrow’s hunt?
“Ah, Sandy, my boy,” the Major answered, trying to find a palatable explanation for his lack of funds. “I’m afraid misfortune has visited me.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Nothing serious - merely a temporary inconvenience.” The explanation came to him. “All that jostling and crowding in the airport at Montevideo. I’m afraid someone picked my pocket. He got my wallet, credit cards and all.” Peabody hoped Hausman might offer temporary relief from his predicament. It was a forlorn hope. Sandy limited himself to saying “A pity, Major. A pity. You have my sympathy.” (Sandy was known for his generous offerings of sympathy to those in financial distress.)
The Major and Sandy sat at a table on the patio and awaited the arrival of Steve Gress. Hausman ordered a drink - for himself. Then a thought occurred to him. He leaned forward in his chair. “Major,” he said. “I may be able to help you out. Suppose I were to advance the price of, say, four cases of shell. Suppose I were to bet Steve I’d get more birds that you. What would you think of that?”
Major Peabody had a number of thoughts. One of them was: Providence was smiling upon him.
“Two things occur to me, Sandy,” he answered. “The first is: What’s in it for me? I noticed you used the word ‘advanced’.
