A House-Boat on the Styx. Bangs John Kendrick

“You’ve had everything.”

      “Except the mumps,” retorted Munchausen.  “But, honestly, I did once have as much canvas-back duck as I could eat.”

      “It must have cost you a million,” said Bonaparte.  “But even then they’d be cheap, especially to a man like yourself who could perform miracles.  If I could have performed miracles with the ease which was so characteristic of all your efforts, I’d never have died at St. Helena.”

      “What’s the odds where you died?” said Doctor Johnson.  “If it hadn’t been at St. Helena it would have been somewhere else, and you’d have found death as stuffy in one place as in another.”

      “Don’t let’s talk of death,” said Washington.  “I am sure the Baron’s tale of how he came to have enough canvas-back is more diverting.”

      “I’ve no doubt it is more perverting,” said Johnson.

      “It happened this way,” said Munchausen.  “I was out for sport, and I got it.  I was alone, my servant having fallen ill, which was unfortunate, since I had always left the filling of my cartridge-box to him, and underestimated its capacity.  I started at six in the morning, and, not having hunted for several months, was not in very good form, so, no game appearing for a time, I took a few practice shots, trying to snip off the slender tops of the pine-trees that I encountered with my bullets, succeeding tolerably well for one who was a little rusty, bringing down ninety-nine out of the first one hundred and one, and missing the remaining two by such a close margin that they swayed to and fro as though fanned by a slight breeze.  As I fired my one hundred and first shot what should I see before me but a flock of these delicate birds floating upon the placid waters of the bay!”

      “Was this the Bay of Biscay, Baron?” queried Columbus, with a covert smile at Ptolemy.

      “I counted them,” said the Baron, ignoring the question, “and there were just sixty-eight.  ‘Here’s a chance for the record, Baron,’ said I to myself, and then I made ready to shoot them.  Imagine my dismay, gentlemen, when I discovered that while I had plenty of powder left I had used up all my bullets.  Now, as you may imagine, to a man with no bullets at hand, the sight of sixty-eight fat canvas-backs is hardly encouraging, but I was resolved to have every one of those birds; the question was, how shall I do it?  I never can think on water, so I paddled quietly ashore and began to reflect.  As I lay there deep in thought, I saw lying upon the beach before me a superb oyster, and as reflection makes me hungry I seized upon the bivalve and swallowed him.  As he went down something stuck in my throat, and, extricating it, what should it prove to be but a pearl of surpassing beauty.  My first thought was to be content with my day’s find.  A pearl worth thousands surely was enough to satisfy the most ardent lover of sport; but on looking up I saw those ducks still paddling contentedly about, and I could not bring myself to give them up.  Suddenly the idea came, the pearl is as large as a bullet, and fully as round.  Why not use it?  Then, as thoughts come to me in shoals, I next reflected, ‘Ah—but this is only one bullet as against sixty-eight birds:’ immediately a third thought came, ‘why not shoot them all with a single bullet?  It is possible, though not probable.’  I snatched out a pad of paper and a pencil, made a rapid calculation based on the doctrine of chances, and proved to my own satisfaction that at some time or another within the following two weeks those birds would doubtless be sitting in a straight line and paddling about, Indian file, for an instant.  I resolved to await that instant.  I loaded my gun with the pearl and a sufficient quantity of powder to send the charge through every one of the ducks if, perchance, the first duck were properly hit.  To pass over wearisome details, let me say that it happened just as I expected.  I had one week and six days to wait, but finally the critical moment came.  It was at midnight, but fortunately the moon was at the full, and I could see as plainly as though it had been day.  The moment the ducks were in line I aimed and fired.  They every one squawked, turned over, and died.  My pearl had pierced the whole sixty-eight.”

      Boswell blushed.

      “Ahem!” said Doctor Johnson.  “It was a pity to lose the pearl.”

      “That,” said Munchausen, “was the most interesting part of the story.  I had made a second calculation in order to save the pearl.  I deduced the amount of powder necessary to send the gem through sixty-seven and a half birds, and my deduction was strictly accurate.  It fulfilled its mission of death on sixty-seven and was found buried in the heart of the sixty-eighth, a trifle discolored, but still a pearl, and worth a king’s ransom.”

      Napoleon gave a derisive laugh, and the other guests sat with incredulity depicted upon every line of their faces.

      “Do you believe that story yourself, Baron?” asked Confucius.

      “Why not?” asked the Baron.  “Is there anything improbable in it?  Why should you disbelieve it?  Look at our friend Washington here.  Is there any one here who knows more about truth than he does?  He doesn’t disbelieve it.  He’s the only man at this table who treats me like a man of honor.”