NOTES FROM MY DIARY. 263 



pronunciation of its equivalent was "tide go ashore." Will some sinologue come to the rescue ? 



* * * ♦ 



In the winter of 1873, I was at Kashing with my quaker friend John Blain, at one time 

 senior of the firm of Blain, Tate & Co. The country was white with snow, and those who 

 know Kashing and have seen it robed in its spotless mantle know how dazzlingly, brilliantly 

 white the long stretches of plain can look. Blain had been shooting without any luck when 

 by himself, and as the birds were all in cover, driven thither by the snow for warmth and 

 food, I suggested that we work together, and we found that nearly every snow-bound 

 covert had its tenants. As a hen pheasant broke back over a rather open bamboo copse I 

 dropped her. A shot from Blain immediately followed and I saw him running hard after 

 the bird, which he fondly believed he had knocked over, a belief that it would have been 

 sheer cruelty to have shaken. The bird made for a solitary holly bush and Blain after it, 

 and I could see him dodging from side to side as he got an occasional glimpse of the runner. 

 Then came a shot followed quickly by calls for me in muffled tones. What I than saw was 

 as ludicrous as it was dangerous. Blain had an exceptionally heavy moustache, and he 

 was following the movements of the bird with his gun at his shoulder all the time. Suddenly 

 the chance to fire came, and the right hammer fell locking the moustache to the barrel. 

 And there was my friend his gun his master, and pointing seemingly wherever it wished. 

 Weird but impressionable picture it was: the dark green leaves of the holly, the brilliant 

 scarlet of its berries, the dusky garment of the swarthy Blain, in their setting of spotless 

 white. He was afraid of raising the right hammer in case he should inadvertently touch 

 the left trigger. My difficulty was to get near him, for as he moved his gun constantly 

 pointed at me. However I got the prisoner to stand still, went up behind him, raised the 

 right hammer and set free my friend. An 8-lb. gun suspended only by one's moustache 

 must have left painful impressions and certainly was as terrifying as Damocles' sword of 

 ancient story. 



Many a time afterwards did we laugh over this incident, and Blain himself rejoiced 



in telling the tale. But it was no laughing matter at the time, either for him or for me. 



« « » • 



Some years ago I was shooting round the Hills on the off chance of getting a wood- 

 cock. A long grass plain stretched at their feet whose damp spots I thought might hold a 

 bird. My dog, a red setter, young and strong, came to a sudden point and then made a jump 

 forward and brought me back a coon dog. How to relieve the dog of his mouthful was 

 the difficulty. A happy thought struck my dog boy. He put the dog's collar round the 

 coon's body, and from the look of the animal I should say had braced it pretty tightly up, 

 affixed the chain, and marched the prisoner off to the boat. On getting back to Shanghai 

 the coon was handed over to Mr. H. W. Daniel, the master of the Drag Hounds, and on the 

 following hunt was to be given the opportunity of showing the pack his heels. The great 

 day came. The meet was at Jessfield. The coon was given the usual grace. The hounds 

 were laid on, and when he heard Bantler's bell-toned bay he thought it about time to be off. 

 The chase lasted about a minute and the quarry was run into within a hundred yards, being 

 stuck up by the fence which borders Mr. Jenner Hogg's domain at Unkaza. The coon- 

 faced dog was like a bag fox. He did not know his way about. Still he figured in the list 

 of the season's kills. 



