110 THE IMAGE OF WAE 



As the day wore on the cold seemed to be more 

 and more intense. My hands and feet ached with it. 

 In one drive I simply could not stand it, and kicked 

 my heels quietly against an old stump by me. Just 

 at that moment I sighted a fox stealing towards me, 

 but the sound was enough for him, and he at once 

 broke back. He would, however, have been quite 

 safe for me then, for now we had the order to shoot 

 at nothing but the "mighty boar." 



At last a halt was made for lunch. Every- 

 body had brought something, and it was a sort 

 of picnic. To the numerous beaters (there must 

 have been sixty) huge loaves and schnaps were 

 served out. 



After this we were silently led to our posts for 

 what we were told was the best beat of the day. 

 My stand was behind a big beech at the foot of a 

 steep hill, topped with young fir thicket, a very likely 

 spot, and one, I was told, where the pig was sure to 

 come if there were any in the cover. Hardly had the 

 shouts of the beaters become audible at the far end 

 of the wood, when I heard sticks cracking on the 

 hill-top. I ought to have mentioned that at noon it 

 had suddenly begun to thaw, and the snow was now 

 quite soft, so I could hear no crunching of footsteps. 

 Presently seven pig appeared and cantered down 

 right towards me, increasing their pace as they 

 descended the declivity. Their course led them not 

 ten yards to my left, and, taking steady aim, I 

 plumped a 20-bore bullet into the broad shoulder of 

 the last and biggest — the lord of the harem himself 

 — for Christmas is the rutting season of the wild 

 boar, and they are then at their finest and fattest. 

 Down he went on his head, making the snow fly, 



