BRITISH SPORT PAST AND PRESENT 



not barren ; for there are cattle on a thousand hills, that, wild 

 as the very red-deer, toss their heads as they snuff the feet of 

 rarest stranger, and form round him in a half-alarmed and 

 half-threatening crescent. . . . 



' . . . All these are splendid schemes — but what say you, 

 Hamish, to one less ambitious, and better adapted to Old Kit ? 

 Let us beat all the best bits down by Armaddy — the Forge — 

 Glenco, and Inveraw. We may do that well in some six or 

 seven hours — and then let us try that famous salmon-cast 

 nearest the mansion — (you have the rods ?) — and if time 

 permit, an hour's trolling in Loch Awe, below the pass of the 

 Brander, for one of these giants that have immortalized the 

 name of a Maule, a Goldie, and a Wilson. Mercy on us, 

 Shelty, what a beard 1 You cannot have been shaved since 

 Whitsunday — and never saw we such lengthy love locks as 

 those dangling at your heels. But let us mount old Surefoot 

 — mulish in naught but an inveterate aversion to all stumbling. 

 And now for the heather ! But are you sure, gents, that ive 

 are on ? 



' And has it come to this ! Where is the grandson of the 

 desert-born ? Thirty years ago, and thou, Filho da Puta, wert 

 a flyer ! A fencer beyond compare ! Dost thou remember 

 how, for a cool five himdred, thou clearedst yon canal in a style 

 that rivalled that of the red-deer across the chasms of Cairn- 

 gorm ? All we had to do was to hold hard and not ride over 

 the hounds, when running breast-high on the rear of Reynard 

 the savage pack wakened the welkin with the tumultuous 

 hubbub of their death-cry. . . . You are sure we are on, 

 Hamish ? and that he will not run away ? Come, come, 

 Surefoot, none of your funking ! A better mane for holding 

 on by we could not imagine. Pure Shelty, you say, Hamish ? 

 From his ears we should have suspected his grandfather of 

 having been at least a Zebra. . . . 



' . . . Comma — semicolon — colon — full point ! All three 

 scent-struck into attitude steady as stones. That is beautiful. 

 Ponto straight as a rod — Piro in a slight curve — and Basta a 



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