THE LAST STALK OF THE SEASON 171 
mist enveloped everything all round the lodge, 
which is one of the highest, if not the highest, of 
all the shooting lodges in the Highlands, 1764 ft. 
above the level of the sea. On coming down to 
breakfast my host said to me, " Well, I don't 
think it is any use going out to-day. What do 
you say ? " But I knew quite well that my host, 
one of the keenest and best of sportsmen, was 
only poking fun at me on this the last day of 
the season. By ten o'clock the mist had slightly 
lifted. There was a steady drizzle ; the high 
tops were still covered ; the wind was east to 
south-east — the wrong wind for this forest — and 
the prospect was certainly not inviting. How- 
ever, we determined to make a start, and I 
was sent out on the beat of the head stalker, 
Macdougall. We had not gone more than a mile 
from the lodge when we saw a shootable stag with 
some hinds, and after a stalk up a burn and a 
considerable crawl over a peaty bog, we got to a 
point within shot of them. Macdougall was just 
getting the rifle out of its cover when some- 
thing disturbed the deer, and away they went. 
Macdougall said he thought I must have shown 
myself, though I was not conscious of having 
done so. At any rate, I had succeeded in getting 
