MY FIRST STAG AND SOME OTHERS 11 



over wood and hill, and fell faintly on the ears of the 

 driving-party just reaching the lodge four miles away, 

 a* a signal, as it happened, that a line eleven-pointer, 

 scaling 19 stone, lay dead in the slopes of. Stor Fjeld 

 woods. 



It occasionally happens to every sportsman to pull 

 off a long and fluky shot, possibly after a previous 

 miss or two at shorter range. One or two instances 

 of these distinctly satisfactory episodes linger fondly 

 in my memory. In the same Forest of Strom was a 

 thickly-wooded and wide valley called Stromsdalen, 

 surrounded by high fjelds. Two of our party had 

 more than once come across a fine stag, said to be a 

 royal, on the west side of this valley. On the first 

 occasion the unlucky stalker had managed to let off 

 his rifle by mistake just as he sighted the stag. About 

 ten days after, the stag had been seen again near the 

 same spot, and missed, by another of our riflemen. 

 Towards the end of the season it happened to be my 

 turn to take this beat, and we approached this side of 

 the valley with particular care, knowing how old stags 

 constantly frequent the same spot. It was a still, fine 

 day, and in spite of our caution, Eric Strom, our head- 

 stalker, being with me, we moved the stag before 

 seeing him. He was in his old haunts, but had heard 

 us, and I caught sight of him through the trees, 

 making off up the steep hillside above us, about 

 100 yards away. I fired and missed him, then loaded 

 and missed again, and he disappeared in the cover. 

 Eric shook his head, and we were beginning to look 

 upon it as a lost opportunity, when I caught sight of 

 the stag again, over 250 yards away, on the top of the 

 fjeld, against the skyline and some way to my left 

 obviously a splendid beast. He stood for a moment 



