TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 191 



driving wind and no bedding for the night. 

 But Steve was equal to the occasion and showed 

 me what a first-rate man he was. Our camp 

 was three miles ahead, Ryan's house eight 

 miles behind, and it was 3 o'clock in the 

 afternoon. Steve quietly said, " My fault, 

 I go back and fetch up the pack." None of 

 the others offered to go in his place, so laying 

 down his own pack, for which I was to send 

 back from camp, away went Steve at a trot. 



We pushed on to camp, which John had 

 pitched in a small droke, and just as we got in, 

 down came the rain in torrents. 



Getting a tent pitched in heavy rain is poor 

 fun, but camp was soon comfortable and a 

 roaring fire going. I had shot three grouse 

 with my little rook rifle on the march, out of 

 season I may say, but when it is a question of 

 food I fear game laws are apt to be disregarded 

 in the wilds. I soon had a good stew of grouse, 

 potatoes and onions cooking, which was pro- 

 nounced excellent later on. John was shy of 

 showing his own abilities as a chef and sat 

 humbly at my feet as a learner. After dinner 

 we were talking of poor Steve's bad luck and 

 how wet and uncomfortable he must be, and 

 discussing when we should send one of the men 

 back with a lantern to meet him. It was then 

 quite dark, about 7.30 p.m., when Steve walked 



