T 7 En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 



would have instinctively yelled out 

 " broke " if they had seen the feathers 

 start when four or five of the birds sud- 

 denly became noiseless in mid-air. 



It -is almost dark when we reach the 

 road and take a short cut for the old inn 

 of Valdby Kro. A fox runs out into the 

 field in the distance, and I make every 

 one laugh by my pronunciation of his 

 Danish name " raev." They say that the 

 word which I use sounds like the Danish 

 name for a boot target. Two or three of 

 us try to scramble over the rickety fence 

 at the back of the inn, but a sample dog, 

 a Great Dane, is waiting for us on the 

 other side, and as my friend says that it 

 hurts to have a leg pulled off by a dog of 

 this size, we decide to disappoint the dog, 

 and let him wait for somebody else. I don't 

 care how prosperous a hotel may be, it is 

 bad policy for the landlord to keep a dog 

 which destroys customers before they have 

 paid any bills. Inside the hotel guns are 

 stacked and hung up in the reception 

 room, and hats and heavy coats follow 

 suit Over in one corner is a great heap 



