IN SCOTCH DEER-FORESTS 79 



the stags were ours. The light was good, the day 

 was fine ; there were no excuses to be made. 



Besides all this, the season was getting on, and 

 it were as well not to throw too many chances away, 

 or the proper bag of deer would not be obtained, and 

 fair justice would not be done to the reputation of 

 the forest. All these thoughts crossed my mind, and 

 no doubt Donald's as well. But I did not feel equal 

 to the task of offering any explanations, and, in fact, 

 began to look upon myself, so far as deer- stalking 

 was concerned, as an impostor of the most transparent 

 kind. The disagreeable thought even thrust itself 

 upon me that my nervous system was breaking down, 

 that the initial stages of a premature old age had 

 suddenly commenced, and that a deer-forest was no 

 fitting place for my autumn holiday. 



The rifle which, strange to say, I never for a 

 moment thought of examining was returned to its 

 cover. It is true that as I fired the second shot an 

 unaccustomed slight feeling of awkwardness in its 

 alignment had again been felt. But the thought that 

 anything was wrong with my favourite weapon, the 

 old familiar friend of years, that had served me so 

 recently and so well in other fields, never for one 

 instant occurred to my troubled mind. 



We adjourned in silence to a convenient spring for 

 lunch. Donald, the stalker, and Alister, the gillie, 

 sat a little apart, and conversed in inaudible tones 

 with one another. I was left to reflect on the chances 

 and drawbacks of sport, and a bitter feeling of hatred 

 of the stags I had just missed pervaded my being. 

 After luncheon was over we had a perfunctory drink 

 of whisky all round. The toast of ' more blood ' was 

 clearly inadmissible, so we drank to ' better luck.' 



