212 AUGUST ON THE MOORS 



an air is stirring in the simmering hollows, and your 

 breath comes short, and molten lead seems running 

 down your aching arms into your gun-stock and 

 barrels, and the rank heather-stems, that reach to mid- 

 thigh, cling to your failing legs like coiling serpents, 

 and the tired ankles in your heavy-soled boots go 

 slipping and twisting about on the smooth moss-bedded 

 blocks. There is a certain sinking sense of vacuity 

 in your inner man beside, spite of the biscuits and 

 spirit-laced water you have been indulging in at 

 intervals, and the birds are getting decidedly the better 

 of you at your game of hide-and-seek, as they generally 

 contrive to do towards noon of a hot summer day. So, 

 although what should be an excellent stretch of ground 

 lies between you and the trysting-place for luncheon, 

 you resolve to make a short-cut of it, and bid the 

 panting dogs be coupled up forthwith. 



