64 AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



ment or greeting now and then. Suddenly 

 Jack Sullivan calls out, " Whistsh," in a tone 

 of trembling entreaty. We halt. Uncle Joe 

 beckons to Don, but Don has become cataleptic, 

 and is beautifully backed by Flirt and a son of 

 hers worthy of his dam. From the nature of 

 the ground, we have little difficulty in guessing 

 that Jack has " sohoed" a hare in form. 



At a sign from my uncle he advances and 

 pokes his stick into a bunch of heather. Out 

 pops poor luckless puss. A trying time this 

 for our four-footed friends, but they stand the 

 ordeal bravely. Don moves not a muscle ex- 

 cept to lay himself down with a sort of careless 

 grace, as though to indicate that his business, 

 so far, is over. There is just the slightest 

 quiver in the tail of the more impressionable 

 Flirt, while " Shot," the minor of the party, 

 behaves splendidly. I leave Uncle Joe the 

 honours of first blood. I never dream of 

 wiping his eye or expecting him to miss. No 

 flurry in his mode of raising his well-tried sub- 

 stantial Manton to his shoulder. The brown 

 tube rests for an instant as steady as a rock to 

 the level ; the report rings out with a hard thud, 



