XXXIX 



A BAD SEASON IN NORWAY 

 1905 



IT is indeed fortunate that I am not superstitious or a believer 

 in omens like some of my friends, for the disappointment 

 awaiting me in Norway would have been doubly severe. 

 According to them I was fully assured of the very best of 

 sport, for several things had happened to me lately, all within 

 a short space of time things which those of great faith look 

 upon as certain to bring good luck. 



Thus lately, in a dream, I had visited a carpenter's shop 

 and there watched the making of my own coffin. Taking 

 naturally great interest in the proceeding, I was much puzzled 

 at the time, and for some period afterwards while not yet fully 

 awake, by the circumstance that the coffin had been divided into 

 two compartments by a cross partition. I never solved the 

 conundrum of how my body was to be fitted into it, but well 

 remember that the carpenter refused to see my point or alter 

 his handiwork at my suggestion. 



Another time I had a dream about an old boot, and, when 

 casually mentioning the matter to a companion, was at once 

 told that nothing could be more lucky. This particular boot 

 had belonged to Archbishop Beaton, who was killed at St. 

 Andrews in 1546. Duly authenticated, it had been shown to 

 me shortly before, and I had also visited the spot where the 

 murder was committed. Why, however, that ancient boot 

 should have so impressed itself on my mind is not easy to 

 say. Still, I was ready to take all the good luck it was to 

 bring me. 



Then, again, one morning my best London hat was ruined 



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