1 7 En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 



would have instinctively yelled out 

 " broke " if they had seen the feathers 

 start when four or five of the birds sud- 

 denly became noiseless in mid-air. 



It is almost dark when we reach the 

 road and take a short cut for the old inn 

 of Valdby Kro. A fox runs out into the 

 field in the distance, and I make every 

 one laugh by my pronunciation of his 

 Danish name " raev." They say that the 

 word which I use sounds like the Danish 

 name for a boot target. Two or three of 

 us try to scramble over the rickety fence 

 at the back of the inn, but a sample dog, 

 a Great Dane, is waiting for us on the 

 other side, and as my friend says that it 

 hurts to have a leg pulled off by a dog of 

 this size, we decide to disappoint the dog, 

 and let him wait for somebody else. I don't 

 care how prosperous a hotel may be, it is 

 bad policy for the landlord to keep a dog 

 which destroys customers before they have 

 paid any bills. Inside the hotel guns* are 

 stacked and hung up in the reception 

 room, and hats and heavy coats follow 

 suit, Over in one corner is a great heap 



