84 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



fair salmon before 10 a.m., and then, going on the 

 hill, to secure a good stag. Another day the numbers 

 were reversed. My host was sending me over to 

 the most distant part of the forest, where for three 

 memorable days I lived in the shepherd's house 

 and stalked deer to my heart's content in the wild 

 corries of Luibnadamph. Before starting, a salmon 

 of 12 pounds was caught below the lodge, and then, 

 on the way to the shepherd's house, three good stags 

 were killed. 



It is not often given to us to have opportunity for 

 this kind of varied sporting bag, and so the recollec- 

 tion does not fade. All the different incidents of the 

 particular stalks, and, as it may chance, the kills, remain 

 firmly printed in the memory. It sometimes happens, 

 curiously enough, that on some days confidence may 

 for the time disappear, and one dreads, in a way, to 

 fire the shot. It is, perchance, a particularly fine 

 beast in a particularly awkward spot. That last miss 

 a few days back has, maybe, shaken our confidence. 

 The rifleman has an attack of nerves, and is only too 

 conscious that his hand may fail him, and pictures to 

 himself the stalker's feelings after the event. 



The day I went over to Luibnadamph was, as I 

 have said, a three-stag day. Early in the morning, 

 going up through a birch- clad glen, I had killed a 

 fair nine-pointer with a fluky snapshot. We had 

 jumped him in a hollow, and I should have killed 

 him with the first barrel, but had only just secured 

 him, and no more, with a second bullet that struck 

 the skull at the base of the horn as he ran. Alec, my 

 stalker, evidently considered the kill an inartistic one, 

 and, moreover, I had spoilt the head. 

 . Then we emerged on to the more open forest. 



