126 Sporting Sketches in Pen and Pencil. 



allowed to mount the pony, having had pretty nigh enough of walking ; but 

 one or two stumbles into blind ditches, &c., put a different complexion on 

 his equestrian performance, and before he had gone half the distance he 

 was mightily glad to trust to his own shanks again, and to lead the pony. 

 We soon lost sight of him, however, and shot our way steadily towards 

 the clump. We were shooting pretty well, and gave a fair account of the 

 coveys, though they thinned off considerably as we left the Larder behind. 

 Still, we couldn't complain, and I thought that we should head the other 

 party, though Archy thought we should do "no that bad," if we tied them; 

 for they could shoot quite as well as we could, had equally good dogs, a 

 shade best of the ground, and a wary old campaigner in Donald. And he 

 was not far wrong, for when we reached the clump half an hour later we 

 had twenty-eight brace, while our opponents scored thirty. 



But what had happened to Bostock ? He was a sight to be seen. 

 Having made his dispositions and tethered the pony, he sat himself down 

 behind a stone just over the brow near a spring to wait for us, and went to 

 sleep, and the midges, having undisputed possession, went in at Bostock 

 and lunched on him, scoring him dreadfully. His face looked like what they 

 call in Cornwall a " figgy pudding," he was so charmingly variegated ; and 

 our laughter did not improve Bostock's sense of injury at the situation, and 

 I have no doubt he swore consumedly to himself. " These 'ere Ighlands," 

 as he said to me some days after, " is 'orrid places for hanyone as 'as been 

 brought hup civilised as it may be, and if master comes hup ere again next 

 year, I think as I'll ast him for leave of habsence while 'e's away. Elesh 

 and blood, Mr. F., is more than I can bear," and he walked off with a razor 

 in one hand, hot water in the other, trousers over his arm, and a very 

 lugubrious, much-spotted countenance. 



Poor Bostock! It really was too much for him. "Not a decent 

 public-house parlour, neither, within a 'undred miles, and the mornin' 

 peppers two days hold. Hawful ! hawful !" as he said to a mate 

 subsequently, when relating what he called " the 'errors of the 'Ighlands." 

 However Bostock's private sensibilities might have been disturbed, he did 

 not allow it to interfere with business. There, in the cool shade of a big 

 fir tree or two, with a mass of primaeval rock to lean against, the cloth 



