92 THE LIFE STORY OF AN OTTER 



its way to the clitter near the stream. How 

 carefully he scans the banks, and what a time he 

 dwells on the pile of hoary rocks yet spectral in 

 the uncertain light ! ' No luck, no luck,' he 

 mutters, as he turns the glass to the tributary 

 zigzagging across the western moor. Yet he is 

 all expectation, and great will be his joy if only 

 he can get a glimpse of the long, dark creature 

 hieing to some holt. Away up to the boggy 

 gathering ground he traces the narrowing water, 

 surveys in vain the pools amidst that curlew- 

 haunted waste, then with quick movement, 

 redirects the glass to the clitter, already much 

 less dim and mysterious. Little wonder that 

 that particular refuge attracts him so strongly, 

 that he scrutinizes the approaches so carefully. 

 It was there that he once marked an otter enter ; 

 and the memory of the sport it gave has drawn 

 him year after year to the hilltop in the hope of 

 harbouring another. Again and again he surveys 

 first one stream, then the other, but with no 

 better result ; then he hurriedly examines the 

 river from the foot of the hill to Moor Pool, 

 where the hounds will presently meet. ■ Nothin' 

 movin', nothin' at all, and day close handy. 

 You may as well shut up the glass.' Soon the 

 fleecy clouds crowding the vault are tinged with 



