A VERY FLNE SHOT 157 



— the native name for serow. It was most extra- 

 ordinary luck getting one at the first drive, though 

 I was fiir from being as optimistic as to future 

 results as a man I know who went to a little Irish 

 inn for a few days' salmon fishing. He sallied forth 

 on the first evening of his arrival, and at his second 

 cast hooked and landed a fine, clean run 15 lb. 

 salmon. Highly excited, he rushed back to the 

 inn, overwhelmed the landlord with his jubilations, 

 instantly secured the sole fishing rights of that 

 beat for the whole of his six weeks' holiday — and 

 never rose another fish I 



It appeared from what I subsequently learned 

 that George had sat on the top of the precipice for 

 some time and then, thinking he might place him- 

 self in a better position, moved a few hundred 

 yards higher up. Soon after he heard the dogs 

 yapping, and the little black and white bitch 

 appeared at the edge of the wood. He saw no 

 serow, but a moment later the hunters emerged 

 and pointed excitedly at the opposite side of the 

 corrie, beneath the rock wall. He then made out 

 a serow, its back to him, moving slowly along 

 beneath some larches. It suddenly stopped and, 

 knowing lie would get no other chance, George 

 brought off a very fine shot at nearly three hundred 

 yards, killing the beast dead. It was a full-grown 

 male with a fine mane and a good pair of horns. 



The next day, hearing of another, we started off 

 in the opposite direction and, as usual, drew lots 

 for positions. I was on a ridge. A large wood faced 

 me, at its foot a running stream which wandered 

 out of the valley between high walls of rock and 

 after passing tln-ough a small birch-copse hurled 



