THE GUN AT HOME AND ABROAD 
and come in over the top of the hill where they lay, the wind being favour- 
able. 
This last circuit was somewhat trying. Ole kept racing ahead with true 
Norwegian impetuosity, as if he intended to brain the deer with the stout 
staff he always carried. The Norse character is a curious mixture of 
phlegmatic indifference and mad, unreasoning haste, and that is why there 
are such few good hunters amongst them. At most times Norwegians 
make a fine art of laziness, but in sight of game or when inflamed by music 
or drink they seem to lose all control of themselves and to do just those 
things that an experienced hunter should avoid — even, too, when they have 
had great experience in the chase. 
Ole, old hunter that he was, was no different from the rest, and I dreaded 
what he might do if we should happen to get near game. 
After an hour’s hard work I calculated that we were within 300 yards 
of the stags, so I deposited Ole behind a rock with strict instructions not to 
move until he heard the shot. Though at least fifty-five years of age he now 
trembled all over from sheer excitement. If my dispositions were correct 
the deer lay about 150 yards from the top and near the bend of the hill 
in the wind and facing the east, wherefore I topped the hill very carefully 
in slanting fashion and crawled eastwards for some 200 yards. At this 
point I suddenly became aware of a puff of wind at the back of my ears 
and at once retreated. Whilst doing so I heard the clink of falling stones 
and, rising up, was just in time to see the last of the stags spring from his 
bed and move out of sight. 
By a piece of fortunate judgment I thought the stags might follow the 
shoulder of the hill and show on the other side, so without hesitating I 
dashed straight up the hill and for some distance down the other side. This 
view proved to be correct, for, just as I seated myself against a rock, the 
five stags appeared below in full flight. 
The four youngsters presented an easy broadside at 100 yards, but to 
my chagrin I could only make out the line of the back of the big stag which 
came last. Fortunately, however, he was clear from the others, and as he 
came opposite my position I fired and made a very lucky shot, breaking his 
backbone in the centre. 
Ole flew down the hill like an unleashed greyhound and got hold of 
the stag’s horns before he could roll any distance and seemed to enjoy the 
pleasure of plunging his long knife into the breast of the struggling 
beast. 
306 
