MONNEHAN. 157

he had fastened himself, that he would not
at all dislike going to Congress, and would
even consent to act as Governor of this far-
off and half-savage land known as Oregon.
But, as observed a time or two before,
Monnehan most of all things desired the
name and the renown, like Nimrod, the
builder of Babylon, of a “mighty hunter.”

He had brought no firearms with him,
nor was my father at all fond of guns, but
finally we three little boys, my brother
John, two years older than I, my brother
James, two years younger, and myself, had
a gun between us. So with this gun, Mon-
nehan, under his tall hat, a pipe in his
teeth and a tremendously heavy stick in
his left hand would wander about under
the oaks, not too far away from the house,
all the working hours of the day. Not that
he ever killed anything. In truth, I do not
now recall that he ever once fired off the
gun. But he got away from work, all the
same, and a mighty hunter was Monnehan.

He carried this club and kept it