70 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



stood for a moment, plainly conveying to the couched 

 stag, by some means of wireless telegraphy unknown 

 to humanity, a sense of urgent impending danger. 

 c Look out, sir !' whispered Sandy. I also fancied 

 I caught an unparliamentary epithet applied to the 

 knobber. As I thrust the loaded rifle over the stone, 

 the stag sprang to his feet, but stood for a second too 

 long. I had a fair sight of his breast, as he faced me, 

 and the next moment a fine eight-pointer lay on the 

 heather, shot, as fate would have it, exactly in the 

 right spot. Thus was the foundation of a lasting com- 

 radeship between Sandy and myself happily laid. 



After this first successful experience all went 

 merrily as marriage-bells, though we had our ups and 

 downs, of course. Good stags were not constantly on 

 the ground at the commencement of the season, 

 though a permanent stock of hinds were always to be 

 found in the neighbourhood of Ben Loyal and its 

 steep slopes. 



One day, in the intervals of stalking, we were 

 enjoying a grouse-shooting picnic on one of the Loch 

 Loyal beats, and because we had left the rifle behind 

 though Sandy had not forgotten his glass two 

 fine stags were promptly spied, during the luncheon 

 interval, quietly feeding on the higher ground above 

 us a mile or more away. The stalker's anguish at 

 having left the rifle in the lodge ten miles distant was 

 heart-rending, but ineffective. We could only promise 

 ourselves a stalk in this direction the following 

 morning, but by that time the stags had vanished. 



It is somewhat remarkable how the most accom- 

 plished stalker will occasionally overlook a deer. We 

 had a long and arduous walk, I remember, over this 

 portion of the forest the following day, and for some 



