74 DAYS STOLEN FOB SPORT 



were put to work and, as I stood hidden, I could 

 have made a varied bag had it not been deter- 

 mined that nothing was to tempt me but the mangy 

 fox. While the coming guns were still a long way 

 off I distinctly heard a movement amongst the 

 rushes in the ditch not twenty yards away, and, 

 after a moment's holding of my breath, I saw the 

 big red beast go off with swishing tail. All his side 

 was offered so I could not miss. I shot him for- 

 ward and he dropped dead. 



My presence proved a stop to a variety of game, 

 and the shooting became frequent as the guns 

 neared the spot where I had stood. Somehow the 

 shooting of the fox, mangy as he was, had lulled 

 my desire to shoot, and I stood some distance from 

 the bank and watched the doings of our host and 

 Wilson. As they neared the end the dogs set up a 

 noisy yapping and George called out: "There's a 

 big otter going down the ditch." This call roused 

 me and I was prepared to shoot, for I have no love 

 for the cruel beast that eats of his living victim 

 until it dies and then seeks a fresh one. He came 

 my way and, as he crossed the path to the river, I 

 got a full view and shot him, and more remarkable 

 than this double achievement is the fact that on the 

 same day, in the following year, at the same spot, I 

 shot another otter. 



This lane has a reputation, well deserved, for 

 harbouring in its ivy-clad trees, moth-eaten oaks 

 and elms, and sedgy ditches, every variety of 

 feathered creature that visits the Thames valley. 

 November fogs bring woodcock and snipe. Now, 

 as we drove beneath the shadow of the ancient 

 trees, startled rabbits, some so small that only ear- 



