THE RED DEER 
forward and smelt at his dead companion, looking up quickly with some 
signs of fear. Yet they did not go, but remained walking about below us for 
fully five minutes, finally passing away over the ridge out of sight. This 
was one of those occasions when the “ record ” hunter could have fairly, 
or rather unfairly, distinguished himself, for it would have been the 
simplest thing to have killed the other three stags, which were all quite full 
grown, but my host had given me a liberal allowance, and I had no wish 
for the fame that attaches to a man who gets five or eight stags in a corner 
in a gale and butchers them. 
We had done quite enough, and even as it was, I felt that although such 
a chance does not often occur, it made stalking altogether too easy. 
However, I was now very pleased with the hitting powers of the Mann- 
licher, of whose efficiency I had heard many encomiums, as well as dis- 
paraging remarks, for when we first saw the tiny bore and bullet we were 
inclined to be somewhat sceptical of its degree of shock. Now we know that 
with the nose of the bullet filed or with hollow -point and lead slightly 
exposed its accuracy is remarkable, and the shock quite sufficient to stop 
anything except the very largest animals. A subsequent test of the rachet- 
bullets proved that they were quite unreliable, often flying off at a tangent, 
splitting in two, and even breaking to pieces altogether. 
The next day I had an excellent time with the sea -trout on the lower 
Obbe loch, getting twenty-four, weighing 26 lb., amongst them a beautiful 
five -pounder, which put up a good fight. The following day was also 
devoted to fishing and produced one salmon, 9 lb., and twelve trout, 12 lb. 
September 29 was, however, such a fearful day, even for the Hebrides, 
that we went out only for a few hours in the morning, and shot some very 
tame grouse. 
September 30 proved to be a lovely day, all traces of the gale of the day 
before had gone, and the Sound of Harris, with its hundreds of rocks and 
islands, seemed to be an idyllic landscape of green and blue. “ Just the day 
for the yacht and a little seal hunting over on the N. Uist coast,” suggested 
my host, so away I went with the ladies of the party, whilst the other men 
went to fish. On the yacht came one Rorie Morrison, of Rodel, a noted 
Hebridean pilot, who knew every rock and seal haunt on the coast, and 
who had been Lord Dunmore’s seal hunter for many years. 
When we reached the North Uist coast, we left the ladies on the 
yacht, and, taking one of the small boats, Rorie and I landed. Then we 
climbed to the summit of a high hill, which commanded a splendid view 
99 
