doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com Do You Ever Wonder?

Interesting perspective Rockdoc but the letter you received should have also at least confirmed the originality of your Parker. In general, All you're going to find out with a factory letter is the name of the dealer the firearm was shipped to as it was and still is rare for firearms to be ordered direct from the manufacturer. For example: Colt sold the bulk of their production to 7 large hardware stores and a typical letter from them will state yours was 1 of XX in a shipment to Simmons Hardware or Sears Roebuck on a certain date. Now what a find it would be if the sales invoices for some of these stores were to ever surface.
Jim

Jim
Your right, the Parker letter did give me other useful information, only the original buyer information was disappointing. Thanks for the heads up about Colt letters, I don't need any more hardware store information (I already have a Simmons Hardware store gun, it says so on the buttplate).
Steve

I hope you'll indulge this very long post, but it seems appropriate to add it to this thread:

The veteran
By “Charles Osborne”

I couldn’t tell you my parents’ names, but I do know that I was born in Birmingham, England. Skilled and loving hands delivered me into this world, and my ancestry was, if not so subtle and refined as my cousins from London, or distinctive and classy like my Scottish kin, of solid, honest, workmanlike stock.
It had been a long time since anyone had paid me much attention though – longer than I care to remember – longer still since I’d been offered gainful employment or a full check up. They had been dark times of neglect and idleness. I had dim memories of time spent afield – quarry I’d taken, quarry I’d missed. Some days I’d stood still much of the day and shot much from the one spot; others I’d been walked far and wide, and shot little, but I loved being out either way. The cool, green hills, the moist air … too long ago.
* * *
One day curious things began to happen.
My old guardian took me out of that dark, claustrophobic place I’d spent too long in, and laid me under bright lights. He spoke – I didn’t know to whom at the time – and took directions from someone who obviously knew something of our kind. Under direction my old guardian rang my barrels, and I sang like a bell – for him, or for the one giving direction? I was turned over and over, each part being looked at carefully described.
I was put back in my case, and a few days later felt myself moved to a new place.
I was nervous. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know why I was going. Frightening rumours some years back of our kind being crushed were worrying, but surely no one could do that to me?
Rough hands handled me in a cursory way, only looking at my particular birth marks. These he recorded. I spent a short time with many others – most much younger than me and mostly immigrants who spoke but broken English – Japanese, Americans, Italians, Belgians, French, Germans, Brazilians... Some mocked my long, thin, curly brown tubes, my straight wrist, and my steel-shod heel and toe. I was a little scared of some of them – they looked heavy-set, black-tubed, menacing, rough, and lacking character or refinement. But some were respectfully curious too; a young Italian especially wanted to know all about the hunting I’d done – he seemed to have had little experience of hunting, but had shot at lots of targets. I enjoyed hearing about different places and game from a middle aged American who had seen different sorts of hunting to me. I enjoyed meeting them.
But soon enough I was on my way again in a smelly, noisy, vibrating vehicle. Days, it took…
Then I found myself in a new place. I was disoriented, but reassured that the two there seemed pleased to see me. One of them cased me again, and gently placed me into his vehicle for what turned out to be a short ride.
Out I came again. I was beginning to tire of all the new names, faces and places, and all the handling, but not venturing out, let alone hunting. But this time was different. I was pulled apart and cleaned; not carelessly with a dirty, oily rag, but carefully, with brushes, cloth, oil, and a strange – but pleasant – smelling oily liquid which seemed to miraculously dissolve dirt. I hadn’t felt this clean in a long time.
I was then put in a rack with some others, the large, heavy door closed, and I was allowed to rest in a cool, dark, airy room. The others there were excited to have a new neighbour and they bombarded me with questions. A tall, dark, stern, military type – one of her Brittanic Majesty’s finest (rumoured to have seen service with the police during the Kelly outbreak)! – brought them quickly to order: “One at a time!”. We talked long into the night. A few were quite young, but most of my new neighbours were old too, some even older than me! They assured me that they’d all been shooting with my new keeper, and he’d give me a go soon enough. They told me that he was no expert, but that he meant no ill, and would do his best to look after me. Some of them showed me scars they’d picked up with him, but they seemed to enjoy getting them!
* * *
I felt exposed and vulnerable – and fearful – when I saw this new guardian of mine take up screwdrivers the next day. No one had done this to me for many a year, and one or two hadn’t taken the care to fit them properly. I needn’t have worried though; they were flat, and he carefully picked the grime away to make sure they would fit deeply and surely. A lead plug was driven into one of my tubes and that tube massaged back into approximate roundness; the other was hammered down level with a lead bar. I was a bit sore, but felt in better shape than I had done since the day that charge had struck a loose wad.
Light cartridges slid home into my chambers. I’d nearly forgotten how good that felt! Then my guardian snapped me shut, shouldered me and pressed my triggers; no bang – only snap caps, but he did it many times, and seemed to enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed the movement, but felt a little frustrated that it was not quite the real thing. I was optimistic though that maybe soon I would feel the grass, the wind, and the mist again.
* * *
Another short journey. I wondered what would happen next.
I could feel a brisk breeze and bright sunlight as I was brought out again.
Two cartridges slipped in. They had a strange texture and smell, not the waxed paper I remembered, but they were still reassuringly heavy with lead, and had the same type of crimp – rolled over a card top-wad.
I looked at the country side and was shocked: these were not my cool green hills; the air was dry, the ground flat and stonier; the grass golden, the few trees were sparse, open, sprawling and grand – a strange place indeed…
I was nervous. This is not what I’d remembered and looked forward to, and as we walked through it I found it alien.
But then I felt myself shouldered and saw something I’d not seen for many a year. A rabbit! – in full stride, quartering away. I quite forgot any nervousness and the alien landscape and remembered to concentrate, purposefully, on pushing hard and catching that rabbit. I bellowed a deep, roaring boom, and lost sight of everything through white smoke and bright flame. Real gunpowder! I kept swinging through though, as I’d missed, but still had one more chance. Boom! A tumble and a kick from the rabbit as I swung through it, then it lay still! I live for that moment, and I’d waited a long time to do it again.
My last shots, so many years before had been that new, acrid, sharp, nitro powder – too clean to be wholesome!; it jarred my joints badly and took some of the pleasure from hunting. I hadn’t thought I’d get to enjoy the real thing again!
* * *
I’ve been for a few outings now.
I’ve taken ducks, hares, rabbits. I’ve also shot at small clay discs which shatter when you hit them; I did that looking out over the sea, and there were a lot of familiar names there, and a lot of people having a lot of fun. I didn’t feel at all out of place.
I have picked up some scratches and bumps – a barbed wire fence, some dirt, but I don’t mind an honest scar from honest use. I’m certainly not getting a chance to go rusty!

Hope you liked it.
RG

Thank you for a very enjoyable post Cadet. I remember reading a similiar type of post many years ago about a Paul Revere silver teapot being discovered after languishing in a forgotten attic trunk for decades.
Jim

About 20 years ago I had a table at our annual local 2-day gun show, and due to the crowds coming by didn't have a chance to look around until later in the day.An older gentleman that seemed to have an interest in things British had a few guns on his table and the one that caught my eye was a large single barrel piece that turned out to be a single ten gauge by W.W.Greener.It had obviously seem some hard use but it was all there,and the more I handled it the better it felt.The weight ,the balance,the stock dimensions,everything said, "take me shooting".The gun was chambered for the 3 1/4" "perfect" brass case however there was one problem.The tape measure and bore micrometer gave a barrel length of 38 1/2" and no choke.At some point in the past I had to assume that an obstruction at the muzzle had resulted in the barrel being shortened. It was not uncommon for fowlers like this to have 42" barrels.A serious fowler with no choke, maybe not.Further measuring discovered minimum barrel wall of almost 70 thou.and an idea was born.A phone call to the late,great,Stan Baker in Seattle and the barrels were in the mail.Two weeks later I had a 3 1/2" chambered,overbored ten gauge with 25 thou of choke that threw wonderful full choke patterns with 1 1/2 oz. of #2 bismuth shot.The old girl was back in business.Everytime I
take her out I wonder where she has been.Likely spent two or three decades on the marshes of Britain and then over to the
"colonies".Well, she is doing a fine job on our local snow goose population and gives me a "buzz" everytime out.
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Good stuff boys, keep it coming.


Destry

Sure..I only have two Guns...But my 1901 Greener U/L Hammer Pidg' often seems about to fess up with a tidbit, but never does.
Its been sleeved & re proofed in the 90's, re CC'd & generally done up in England.Wonder how many shots in England in 107 years.Barrels shot out through wear, or a mud plug....someone thought enough of it to do her over..as Ken said she came in like that
I bought it from Ken D @ Atkins G&L,,And waiting for it to arrive & first opening her up, just after chats & photo's was quite memorable in itself..I was very happy.
I e mailed Graham G & found it to be a special order mid grade..with their best team working on it..especially action filer Mr Camm..who apparently worked on exhibition stuff.
Its nice to look through the Greener book & try to imagine who is Mr Camm who filled a gorgouse set of percussion fences on her.
My Belgian SLE doen't seem like talking...it could be the language barrier though,hah hah
Franc

Here's that A. Hollis and its incredible history, that Brit rifle oozes invincibility!!!
The rifle was discovered in a cycle/gun shop called Tatos Brothers in the little farming town of Gwelo (now Gweru - Zimbabwe) in what was then Southern Rhodesia where it was offered for sale on behalf of a farmer (name unknown) and it was purchased by Mr. Paul Coetsee in 1959-60
Mr. Coetsee worked for the Game Department in Southern Rhodesia. His responsibilities included the control of problem animals and the control of the spread of the Tsetse Fly disease. Between 1964 and 1970 the .500 Hollis was to be used almost exclusively on elephant control in the then Southern Rhodesian Game department. On the southern banks of the Kariba Dam especially, elephant carriers of the Tsetse fly had to be controlled to limit the spread of the disease and in the Gokwe and Omay Tribal Trust areas, problems with bull elephant crop raiders kept the rifle in regular usage.
The .500 rifle became well known to VIP foreign guests of the then Prime Minister Mr. Ian Douglas Smith during hunting safaris conducted in the Gokwe area. Among the dignitaries was the late sir Archibald James from London whom hunted his last elephant (accompanied by Mr. Coetsee) at the age of about 80 years. The late Prime Minister, John Voster of South Africa and many dignitaries from the USA, Germany and South Africa were also accompanied during hunts using the same rifle
Of his rifle, Mr. Coetsee said 'the Hollis .500 served me well,{Typical English understatement} having put down about 1000 elephants with brain shots, many buffalos and a considerable number of lions. Bull elephant that were shot with this rifle ranged from 50lbs. per side to 100lbs. per side.'
All the best