ON THE GANDER RIVER. 213 



which Hardy had photographed, when passing round the 

 edge of a clump of trees I started at close quarters a fine 

 stag with a heavy pair of antlers. Hardy had left me a 

 few moments before to look over a marsh ; therefore, though 

 it was his shot, I had no choice but to shoot at once, as the 

 stag was evidently about to dash away. I put up my rifle 

 and pulled the trigger, with the result of a misfire. The 

 stag, of course, made off at full speed, but I threw out the 

 bad cartridge and got in a second shot, which brought the 

 animal down. I then looked round and found that Hardy, 

 walking silently over the deep moss, had rejoined me, 

 having seen nothing on the marsh. When my rifle missed 

 fire, he covered the running stag with his rifle, but gave 

 me time to re-load and shoot, an action which tells its own 

 story. 



This stag carried the best head that I secured during 

 the trip. The next day was the very last day of the season, 

 and on it Hardy came into his own, shooting at sunset, 

 many miles away from camp, a magnificent stag of thirty- 

 six points, by far the finest we either of us secured. Some 

 day, I hope, the hunter to whom it belongs will tell the 

 almost epic story of its slaying, at sunset on the last day 

 of the season. 



The following morning we travelled down the river, and 

 so by canoe and accommodation train drifted back into the 

 duller channels of ordinary life. 



