As a hunter, Paul would make old Nimrod himself look like a city dude
lost from his guide. He was also a good fisherman. Old-timers tell of
seeing Paul as a small boy, fishing off the Atlantic Coast. He would
sail out early in the morning in his three-mast schooner and wade back
before breakfast with his boat full of fish on his shoulder.

About this time he got his shot gun that required four dishpans full of
powder and a keg of spikes to load each barrel. With this gun he could
shoot geese so high in the air they would spoil before reaching the
ground.

Tracking was Paul's favorite sport and no trail was too old or too dim
for him to follow. He once came across the skeleton of a moose that had
died of old age and, just for curiosity, picked up the tracks of the
animal and spent the whole afternoon following its trail back to the
place where it was born.

The shaggy dog that spent most of his time pretending to sleep in front
of Johnny Inkslinger's counter in the camp office was Fido, the watch
dog. Fido was the bug-bear (not bearer, just bear) of the greenhorns.
They were told that Paul starved Fido all winter and then, just before
payday, fed him all the swampers, barn boys, and student bullcooks. The
very marrow was frozen in their heads at the thought of being turned
into dog food. Their fears were groundless for Paul would never let a
dog go hungry or mistreat a human being. Fido was fed all the watch
peddlers, tailors' agents, and camp inspectors and thus served a very
useful purpose.

It is no picnic to tackle the wilderness and turn the very forest itself
into a commercial commodity delivered at the market. A logger needs