Dolly Connelly of Bellingham, Wash., a lady of quality and truth, offers a fish story about deer:
It seems that two Boeing engineers always hunt together. They pool their deer tags, so to speak, until each has the one buck he is allowed. On opening day this year, one of them was successful, the other got skunked. So, with one deer tag remaining, they went out again the next weekend. High in the hills they came on a hogback ridge with plenty of deer sign on either side, so they decided to split up and meet again at the base of the ridge. When they got back together later each was looking for the other to help him haul his deer—and they had only one tag left between them.
They are both fine sportsmen and it was unthinkable to leave one of the bucks in the woods to rot. So they brought both animals out, piled them in their pickup truck and started down, trying to figure out how they could explain this to the local game protector. Just before they reached the main road leading back to Seattle, they spotted a station wagon parked deep in the brush and they stopped to investigate. In the front seat of the wagon snored a hunter deep in an alcoholic sleep. His deer tag stuck jauntily out of his hatband. His rifle was on the floor in the back.
The engineers exchanged a delighted look. Without a word, they went to work. One wrestled the extra buck from the pickup to the back of the station wagon and applied the drunk's deer tag to it. His companion took the drunk's rifle, got in the truck, drove back up the forest road a mile or so, fired the rifle twice, retained the empty cartridges and drove back down again. Carefully, the rifle was placed across the sleeper's lap and the expended cartridges were scattered on the seat of the car.
Then the two engineers left, fast and quietly, grinning with relief. The sad part of the story is no one was around to report what happened when the potted Nimrod awoke.
Then there was the one about the guy who drove out from the big city and checked into a motel in the middle of the day with a beautiful girl, a bottle and no luggage. He told the clerk he was going to watch television.
So don't snicker. He watched television. It happens in Connecticut every Sunday when the New York Giants are home. And something approximating it happens in other National Football League cities—wherever ingenious fans can find a place to catch the game on a TV station located outside the NFL's 75-mile home-game blackout area.
The Connecticut motels were not the first with this TV bootlegging, but they have given it class. They even advertise in the New York newspapers—"Big, beautiful private room, a 21-inch television set...plenty of glasses and ice." And the crowds and liquor are pouring in. Like at the 160-room Stratford Motor Inn in Stratford, Conn., which is perhaps the only blackout oasis anywhere that features a book of Shakespeare's plays in every room.
The inn's 50-foot antenna is reverently pointed, like an electronic Moslem, toward Hartford, 60 miles away, and upward of 250 football pilgrims have been on hand for its Sunday picture. The tab is $10.35 for a room with a TV view, and the management tries to limit the number of persons in a room to four.