282 THE WAYS OF SPORTSMEN 



fifteen minutes. Every muscle ached and 

 seemed about to rebel against his will. If the 

 buck held to his course he would pass not more 

 than fifteen feet to one side of the gun, and the 

 man that held it thought he might almost blow 

 his heart out. 



There was one more tree for him to pass 

 behind, when the gun could be raised. He 

 approached the tree, rubbed his nose against 

 it, and for a moment was half hidden behind it. 

 When his head appeared on the other side the 

 gun was pointed straight at his eye — and with 

 only No. 4 shot, which could only wound him, 

 but could not kill him. 



The deer stops; he does not expose his body 

 back of the fore leg, as the hunter had wished. 

 The latter begins to be ashamed of himself, and 

 has about made up his mind to let the beautiful 

 creature pass unharmed, when the buck sud- 

 denly gets his scent, his head goes up, his nos- 

 trils expand, and a look of terror comes over 

 his face. This is too much for the good reso- 

 lutions of the hunter. Bang! goes the gun, 

 the deer leaps into the air, wheels around a 

 couple of times, recovers himself and is off in 

 a twinkling, no doubt carrying, the narrator 

 says, a hundred No. 4 shot in his face and 

 neck. The man says: "I've always regretted 

 shooting at him." 



I should think he would. But a man in the 

 woods, with a gun in his hand, is no longer a 

 man — he is a brute. The devil is in the guu 

 ;0 make brutes of us all. 



