JOHN AND I GO TO THE HIGH FLATS. 83 



mound, not quite a hill, in a light so faint through the sun's absence 

 and by cause of approaching night, that it could just be shot in, and 

 that was all. 



To their front, oh, say two hundred yards, within a yard, a fine 

 stag outlined on the edge of a hill until he looked less than half the 

 distance away; and as we are watching these men we see the one 

 who is to shoot reaching cautiously back with his sole and single 

 hand, the left, to take the now unscabbarded rifle which the stalker 

 has slipped from its receptacle, and made ready for him. 



Mind you, they are both lying as flat to the ground as men can 

 crowd. In front of the one who hopes to shoot is already the little 

 brown field glass case with his yellowish old velveteen cap atop. Fit 

 rest, he thinks, for what he hopes will be a telling shot. He is reach- 

 ing, I say, for the rifle which the stalker thrusts swiftly but silently 

 toward him, when his ear is assailed by "They're off, they're off !" 

 in tones like those an angry dog uses when a bone has been taken 

 from him. 



No wonder John was angry. I would have been feeling as he did, 

 in his place, for as I flung my eyes back to w r here the stag had stood 

 his place was vacant. He had vanished over the edge of the hill from 

 me as if swallowed up by an opening of the earth. There was nothing 

 to do but to get upon our feet, slip the rifle back in its covering and 

 fall into the regular tramp for the path which was to take us back 

 to the Lodge. 



Half way to the path, well, say a mile and a half from where the 

 stalk ended, it was quite fully dark, and now, as if to add to poor 

 John's mortification and disappointment, we walked within seventy- 

 five yards of three fine stags which stood and looked upon us, or so 

 it seemed, and smiled as one would think, to feel themselves safe. I 

 have a notion that John would have been quite willing for me to take 

 a shot at these, and I felt confident I could have hit one at the short 

 range, regardless of the fact that it would have been impossible to 

 see either front or rear sight distinctly, but I did not feel myself so 

 abjectly in need of a stag as to justify shooting one at short range 

 and in the dark. 



When we got to the path five miles from the Lodge, John and 

 Duncan, as by custom, fell into the rear and I swung out on my own 



