16 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



on the heather behind a rock, I sighted the stag for 

 several moments as he lay at his ease in the flat, un- 

 conscious of danger. I was shooting then it was 

 many years ago with a double *500 express which 

 I knew well, and which had no elevating sight. Some- 

 thing had to be allowed for distance, and I hesitated. 



c Sandy,' I whispered, ' I don't like the shot as he 

 lies. Can you whistle him up ?' 



Sandy nodded and gave a shrill whistle on his 

 fingers. The obliging stag started instantly to his 

 feet. ' It's all of 190 yards, sir,' murmured Sandy 

 as I raised the fore- sight to the top of his shoulder 

 and fired. The stag, a good eight-pointer, ran a few 

 yards and fell dead. It was another lucky day. We 

 subsequently found that the bullet had entered his 

 shoulder at the very lowest point possible for a kill. 

 Three inches lower had been a graze or a miss. 



But there was yet a second and last stag of the 

 season to be killed. For several hours that afternoon 

 we walked and spied to no purpose. Evening was 

 drawing on, when over the marsh, at the farthest 

 extremity of our 30,000 acres of forest, we spied a 

 good stag with the Ben Loyal parcel of hinds. Sandy 

 showed signs of annoyance. ' That's a Reay stag, sir, 

 and he's takin' our hinds off the ground.' The deer 

 were feeding slowly across an open marshy flat. Our 

 poaching instincts were thoroughly aroused. ' We 

 must move them out of that, sir,' said Sandy. ' Maybe 

 the hinds will bring him back with them. I know 

 their run.' Accordingly, I fired a long shot at over 

 400 yards. The bullet spent itself harmlessly in the 

 heather among the deer. Away they went parallel 

 to our march. ' Follow me, sir, quick,' said Sandy 

 as he grabbed the rifle and started off at a steady trot. 



