THE PHANTOM STAG 97 



The Head Forester and I excitedly shake 

 hands ; at last we have got the blessed brute ! 



After a quick run over the three hundred 

 yards of marshy meadowland we reach the 

 spot, and there — to our indescribable surprise 

 and disillusionment — lies a poor wretched 

 twelve-pointer, killed by a beautifully clean 

 shot. This was really going beyond a joke ! 

 I told the forester to his face that there was 

 something wrong here. At this he found his 

 tongue again, and told me that for a long 

 time there had been a legend among the 

 neighbouring huntsmen of a splendid stag, at 

 which many of them had shot, that was be- 

 witched, and for which the fatal bullet had 

 not yet been cast. 



Well, I am not really superstitious, but 1 

 must say I am inclined to think there was 

 certainly something mightily uncanny about 

 this stag. 



We still call him the ghost-stag, and I do 

 not believe I shall ever get another shot at him. 



H 



