NEAR MIDDLE RIDGE. 133 



caribou type. I was half tempted to shoot, as the head 

 was more than a fair one, but the uncertainty as to 

 whether the left horn, which was farthest from us, was 

 as good as the right made me pause. In time the stag 

 returned on his course and presently crossed within a 

 hundred yards. It was now perfectly clear that he was 

 not more than a five or six year old, so, giving up all 

 thoughts of a shot, I spent the gloaming within a few 

 yards of this beautiful creature, finally slipping away 

 unnoticed and returning to camp full of hopes for the 

 morrow. 



Almost throughout the trip, as 1 have said, we had 

 been the victims of a kind of weather which, more than 

 any other, is unfriendly to the stalker. The days had 

 been nearly without exception darkened by successive 

 squalls of rain or melting snow, yet each evening it had 

 blown clear and the nights had been frosty and starlit. 

 In these circumstances we rejoiced to hear the wind 

 roaring in the trees and shower after shower of sleet 

 beating upon our lean-to throughout the entire night, 

 for we made sure that morning would bring a change 

 for the better. 



This was exactly what happened. The sun rose 

 unclouded and bright, and, stepping out of camp, we 

 were at once greeted by a sight of the three stags which 

 we had seen upon the previous evening. They were 

 easily recognisable through the telescope, so we wasted 

 no time in stalking them, but, taking a long cast to the 

 northward, were soon able to see over a large extent of 

 country, upon which, however, nothing seemed to be 

 moving. The early hours of the morning brought no 

 good fortune, and it must have been nearly midday 

 when, in the hollow between two rolling hummocks, 



