" SOLD ! " 



As to whether mine host of " The Golden Dolphin's " 

 excellent Scotch whisky was responsible for the creation 

 of the huge and savage grizzly of my dreams on the 

 Christmas Eve of which I speak, I know not. Person- 

 ally, I am inclined to beheve that it was not the whisky 

 but Mrs. " Dolphin's " equally excellent roast turkey and 

 mince-pies. In either case, that infernal bear seemed 

 to have been chasing me up a steep and densely wooded 

 incline the greater part of the night, and was devilish 

 near running into me, when a volley of shingle rattled 

 against the diamond-paned casement of " The Golden 

 Dolphin's " sole and only guest-chamber, and drove 

 my unwelcome ursine visitor up the chimney — or to the 

 deuce for aught I know or care. 



The shower of pebbles was followed by a loud and re- 

 markably clever imitation of the cry of a curlew, and 

 drawing up the window-blind I saw the indistinct shadow 

 of old Tom Tundridge, the professional wildfowler and 

 eel-catcher, standing on the snowy pavement below. 



" There be a tidy lot o' widgeon on the mullet-banks, 

 maister, so I thought I'd jest give ye a call, loike ! " hailed 

 Tom up to me in a tone of voice meant to be soft and 

 lamb-like, but which might have been heard a quarter 

 of a mile away. 



Phew ! it was thundering cold — the water in bath and 



