KOTES FROM MY DIAKY. 249 



out longer. Later on in my efforts to return I found that I was cut off by a bridgeless creek. 

 There was I on a cold dark evening, — it was about 8 o'clock — the boat's mast-head light 

 flickering tantalizingly near and a deep creek intervening between me and comfort. Well 

 there was but one of two things to be done. To seek shelter in some native farm house, 

 for there were no boats about, or to make a dash for home. I chose the latter, shouldered my 

 gun muzzle downwards, and swam the creek. Landing on the opposite bank was no easy 

 matter for the foothold was slimy, greasy mud, and a pocketful of wet cartridges and half a 

 dozen pheasants made my progress until I got on firm ground uncertain and slow. Once on 

 board the boat it was not long before I was sipping something hot with sugar in it beneath 

 the blankets. And as I became suffused with a gentle glow I realized to the full what a 



heaven a houseboat could be. 



« « * « 



My constant shooting chum, Walter Phipps (Harrow XI, and Oxford racquets) and I were 

 in the Pintahu at China New Year 1894. We had struck a rare piece of country, 5 // west of 

 Tasijow, had had a good morning's shoot and tiffin in the open, and were working our way 

 back to the boat when I shot a pheasant which fell across a rather wide lagoon. My dog 

 Snow, a small white setter, was after it in a twinkling, the pheasant swimming like a duck 

 and making for the bramble-covered bank opposite. The dog followed suit, but I soon 

 discovered that he was in difficulties, and that the brambles had got mixed up with his 

 collar, and that he could not extricate himself. It was evident that unless he quickly got 

 free he would drown himself, so action had to be taken at once. Divesting myself of gun, 

 coat and cartridges I struck out and got him free. Then came the return swim in water 

 anything but warm, and a long walk to the boat against a cutting northerly breeze. It was a 

 long time before the wind dried my clothes and the water got squeezed out of my shooting 

 boots. However a cup of "sliced tea" — tea with a teaspoonful of brandy in it — and a 

 change of clothes quickly made me forget all my discomforts. 



• » • » 



In December 1898, 1 found myself in the Poe creek, shooting over a country to which 

 I was no stranger. Long high embankments are a characteristic feature of this neighbour- 

 hood. The season had been dry, but wherever water was pheasants were. I had made a 

 good bag, eight brace during the morning, and things were going on smoothly enough until 

 interrupted by an untoward accident. I had dropped a cock pheasant across a small creek 

 into the open plough, and my pointer bitch went after it. On her attempting to scramble 

 up the precipitous bank, an exceedingly goodlooking native dog showed such unmistakable 

 unfriendliness that my animal forsook her quest and returned to me. A couple of natives 

 seeing my predicament offered to punt me across. On landing the native dog began to 

 worry the pointer, but a luckily directed half brick diverted his attention for a time. 

 Freed from her annoyer my dog picked up the scent of the wounded bird and followed 

 it into a reed bed when the wonk followed and began to savage her. By this time half 

 a dozen reed cutters appeared upon the scene. I begged of them to quiet their animal, 

 but either they did not or would not understand me, while they seemed to enjoy the fun 

 immensely. And there was I with the prospect of a ruined trip before me, a maimed dog, 

 and no possibility of redress. So after pointing my gun several times at their animal to 



