18 HAPPY HUNTING-GROUNDS 



told to take the third, and this time hit him right 

 through the heart, and marvelled that he ran on more 

 than fifty yards before he fell dead and lay motion- 

 less as a stone. 



It was well that my first day on the hill proved 

 successful, as I was not destined on that occasion 

 to pay a prolonged visit to Braemore. A telegram 

 greeted me on my return ; my son, a baby in arms, 

 had developed a rash at Poltalloch where we had 

 left him in charge of an aunt, and nothing would 

 induce his mother to remain away. Our thoughtful 

 friends once more placed the yacht at our disposal, 

 and early next morning we started for home. It 

 was a flat calm ; a day's steaming brought us to 

 Loch Aline before nightfall, and the skipper sug- 

 gested that we should go in there and anchor for the 

 night, "as he could easily land us at Duntroon in time 

 for breakfast at Poltalloch on the following morning." 

 The plan sounded most satisfactory, so after despatch- 

 ing a telegram ordering the carriage to meet us at the 

 little pier at eight, we turned in, rejoicing that we 

 should so soon be home. Next morning according to 

 orders the skipper weighed anchor at the first dawn 

 of day, but a little later a dismal succession of blasts 

 from the hooter notified that all was not well. I 

 hastily dressed and ran on deck, to find myself en- 

 veloped in a dense fog of the colour, I had almost said 

 of the texture, of cotton wool. We were somewhere 

 in the Sound of Mull, but even in that narrow strait 

 no vestige of land was visible, and after a consultation 

 with the captain we decided to anchor and wait till it 

 cleared. But our waiting, like that of the clown in 

 Horace, was in vain. Breakfast came, then lunch, but 



