io6 SPORT INDEED 



being late to breakfast. However, I am no mushroom 

 crank. My acquaintance with the Basideomyces tribe 

 is slim — much too slim to risk my stomach's welfare 

 in their keeping. In other words, I am always in 

 doubt whether Innocence or Death lies hidden under 

 their kid-like caps. 



But wet weather and mushrooms have nothing to 

 do with the " Big Moose," and so we'll get back on 

 his track. On our first afternoon in camp my guide 

 made the birch-bark horn with which he hoped to lure 

 the old fellow within rifle-reach. Accoutred with this, 

 together with rubber blankets, a lantern and a rifle, 

 we started for the lake, reaching it a few minutes 

 before the daylight vanished into night — and the 

 blackest one within my memory. We called and 

 listened and strained our eyeballs trying to peer 

 through the dense pall that hung around us. A pair 

 of moose did come to the water and — as their foot- 

 prints indicated next day — came very near us. But 

 we didn't see them, and probably would not have seen 

 them had they stepped over us. However, we knew 

 they were there, and fearing they would get on our 

 scent if we stayed through the night, at ten o'clock 

 we groped our way back to camp. Next morning at 

 four o'clock we started again for the lake. The walk 

 was not a pleasant one for the rain was still splashing 

 the road and dripping from the trees. At a quarter to 

 five we reached our " sanctuary " of the night before. 



