ON ST. PATRICKS MARSHES 
shoulders of snowy white, and high in the 
air as he marched swayed a pair of great 
antlers, which, flashing now into view as the 
light caught them, miraculously disappeared 
again as a different angle changed the re- 
flections to shadows. 
Half a mile from the lookout, however, 
to our utter dismay the band turned aside 
at the little bay-like inlet from the lead 
and, entering the scrubby woods of the 
hill, on a knob of which we were watching, 
disappeared one by one from view. The 
stag was last, pausing for one final poise in 
the open, standing in profile as if to give me 
a long range shot at that gleaming white 
shoulder of his, an inference which I, ab- 
sorbed in gazing at him artificially through 
the binoculars, entirely overlooked until he, 
too, stepped into the bushes, and was lost to 
sight. 
“Of all the fools”’ I began. 
““What’s the matter ?”’ inquired Billy. 
“Why in the name of all the prophets 
didn’t you tell me to shoot ?”? demanded I. 
“Why didn’t you kick me? Why in the 
deuce don’t you do it now?” 
“Did you want one of ’em?” asked 
Billy, innocently. 
“You muttonhead! That stag is the 
only thing I want on the island of New- 
foundland,” I sadly declared. 
“Come on, then,” said Billy, catching 
up the glasses. ‘‘Run!”’ 
He was off, back by the path we had 
come, through the scrub spruce and the 
birch. I, taking heart again, followed with 
the rifle. When we reached the edge of 
the open plain on the other side we stopped 
breathless, to look. In spite of our per- 
spiring, heart-pumping rush, the caribou 
were ahead of us, away out on the bog. 
“How far,” panted I, screwing vigorously 
at the back sight of the rifle. 
“Don’t shoot,”’ said Billy. 
“Why not take a chance ?”’ I demanded. 
“The noise might scare ’em,” and he 
grinned to show there was no hard feeling. 
“You know you couldn’t hit anything, sir, 
at that distance—you puffin’ like that and 
them movin’.”’ 
“Well, come on, then,” I persisted, 
“‘we’ll close up on them.” 
“You’d have the devil’s own time,” 
said Billy, ‘right abaft the stern of ’em. 

127 
No, sir, we’ll sit right down where we are, 
and if they don’t stop when they come to 
the tracks of the wake we made coming 
across here this morning, I don’t ever want 
to scaffle a seal again.” 
Our trail stretched across the barren 
anglewise in the direction of the camp 
straight from where we stood. The deer 
were approaching it in a quartering slant, 
pretty well out in the center of the lead. 
“They won’t cross our trail,” reiterated 
Billy, ‘‘you see if they do. Like as not it 
will turn ’em over this way, then you’ll get 
that head, sir, sure as your gun.” 
“The gun’s all right,” I reassured him, 
gripping the stock to keep my nerves from 
slackening. 
“T always use a muzzle-loader, myself,” 
continued Billy. “I put in a hatful of 
powder and a small measure o’ slugs. 
Then I sit down and aim right in the 
middle of the herd. If I be’s anyway 
handy I bring down a couple or three deer 
at a time.” 
“Don’t you ever hurt yourself?” asked I. 
“‘Sometimes,’’ admitted Billy, ‘I para- 
lyze my shoulder, and sometimes I hurt 
my face, but I always shut my eyes, and 
generally the one shot gives me all the meat 
I want, so it ain’t so pad. Look—look— 
that deer in front has stopped! See her put 
her nose down—see that? Now the others 
have all stopped to look at each other. 
See that—what did I tell you?” 
The caribou had halted in an irresolute 
group at the trail we had made an hour or 
so before on our journey out from camp. 
Several of them, the calves in the number, 
lay down. 
“They have travelled a long way this 
morning,” said Billy. ‘The little fellows 
are tired.” 
“T wish they’d travel this way a bit,” I 
muttered, clenching my teeth. Standing 
still in suspense had made me cold and 
shivery again. 
“Wait a minute now,” said Billy. 
“That deer is thinking—see how still she 
is. She’s looking this way. Lucky the 
wind is right, what little there is of it, orshe’d 
smell us. Here they come! Yes, sir, they’re 
coming back to the other lead again.” 
My good old stag had modestly dropped 
into the rear guard once more. Straight 
