ON THE GANDER RIVER. 229 



unsuccessful, days we spent up and down the whole 

 range of the Gander country, from the Burnt Woods 

 to Migwell's Brook and Rolling Falls. 



We were returning to camp one day, having spent a 

 part of the afternoon within a few yards of a young stag 

 which Hardy had photographed, when passing round 

 the edge of a clump of trees I started at close quarters 

 a fine stag with a heavy pair of antlers. Hardy had left 

 me a few moments before to look over a marsh ; there- 

 fore, though it was his shot, I had no choice but to shoot 

 at once, as the stag was evidently about to dash away. 

 I put up my rifle and pulled the trigger, with the result 

 of a misfire. The stag, of course, made off at full speed, 

 but I threw out the bad cartridge and got in a second 

 shot, which brought the animal down. I then looked 

 round and found that Hardy, walking silently over the 

 deep moss, had rejoined me, having seen nothing on the 

 marsh. When my rifle missed fire, he covered the 

 running stag with his rifle, but gave me time to re-load 

 and shoot, an action which tells its own story. 



This stag carried the best head that I secured during 

 the trip. The next day was the very last day of the 

 season, and on it Hardy came into his own, shooting 

 at sunset, many miles away from camp, a magnificent 

 stag of thirty-six points, by far the finest we either of 

 us secured. Some day, I hope, the hunter to whom it 

 belongs will tell the almost epic story of its slaying, at 

 sunset on the last day of the season. 



The following morning we travelled down the river, 

 and so by canoe and accommodation train drifted back 

 into the duller channels of ordinary life. 



