MY FIRST "TWELFTH." 115 



Euston is a mail train, only stopping at very few 

 stations. It had been arranged by my hosts that it 

 should stop at P , their railway station, on the 

 Saturday night. But this was Monday. However, 

 I v went to the Stranraer stationmaster, who listened to 

 my story, and very courteously promised to stop the 

 train at P . At last my troubles were over, and 

 when I jumped out of the train, there was my friend 

 Jack on the platform, in evening dress, for it was late. 



" Well, what have you done ? " I cried. 



" Oh," he replied, " it was so beastly wet we didn't 

 shoot." 



All's well that ends well, thought I . We jumped into 

 the brougham, and were soon whirled up to the house. 



The 1 3th of August, 18 , was not by any means 

 a perfect day, but it was an improvement on the 



Twelfth. The P moors, like most Lowland 



shootings, were more noted for partridge than grouse- 

 shooting, and consequently the party was always 

 smaller at this time than the first week in September. 

 It consisted, as far as shooting men were concerned, 

 of my friend Jack, his father, myself, and an odd sort 

 of Devonshire parson, whose name I forget, but who 

 was an unbounded source of delight to us. It was 

 obviously his great object in life to be considered a 

 mighty Nimrod, and never shall I forget the con- 

 temptuous off-hand way in which he answered my 

 query if he knew Jack Russell. He, however, did not 

 arrive till a day after myself. 



Next morning, as I have said, was not an ideal 



I 2 



