Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that melee. He was young, powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those tipsy brawlers went down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter was the big shot in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before going back to his dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a whole family of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the view of taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, blemmy—the bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick quite putrid.” The next best skunk collector of that time also was a Britisher. Teddy Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim Noyes place over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to be helping with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained and stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice Gentry, and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a spring wagon. On the way in they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the men told Teddy to jump out and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. He carried the skunk to town in his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. John W. Graham would pay well for that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset to grab a little lunch, rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a bob now.” Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side of the street. He also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly always together. With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s door locked. Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at an open window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John W. sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog found the object of his search, a rising young physician literally exploded. Teddy did not wait to collect his bob. Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original influx of Colonists, did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to go out on a chicken foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, neither he nor I was troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both quite sure that we would never have to answer to God or man for our actions — I hasten to say, in this particular instance. Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they would tell you that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked chicken house and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they themselves helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they were to be roasted — innards, feathers and all.