A Vanishing Sport 1 1 1 



ently opened out, and the shooting-box came in 

 sight, a little wooden structure built on a plateau 

 overhanging the stream and surrounded by pines 

 and junipers. A crowd of retainers was lounging 

 about outside, a picturesque crew of good-looking 

 ruffians carrying all kinds of arms, from match- 

 lock to Mannlicher, and like all Chitrali crowds, 

 full of jokes and laughter. The shikaris and 

 beaters had all been out since long before daylight. 

 It was now about nine o'clock, and so far no news 

 had come. The Mehtar came out to meet me, a 

 pale young man rather below middle height with 

 a quiet dignified manner, the difficulties of whose 

 position it is unnecessary to dilate on here. 

 Having not yet breakfasted he asked me to join 

 him, an invitation I found no difficulty in accept- 

 ing, as the keen morning air had long since made 

 my early breakfast a mere remembrance. It 

 fortunately proved to be not the Oriental repast 

 of ceremony, but a comparatively light meal, con- 

 sisting of but four enormous dishes or rather trays 

 of pillaus and suchlike, from which the " king " 

 and I ate direct without the unnecessary formality 

 of separate plates. He ate delicately with his 

 fingers, as the Easterns say "with discretion," 

 while I had the use of the only spoon and fork. 

 As to the prospects of sport, I learnt that a herd 

 markhor had been seen on the previous evening 



