Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.Amazing Deeds and Misdeeds at a Deer-Drive.To some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles.It may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. As we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around—and from the home-feelings thereby engendered—to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions “beyond seas.”Some such thoughts were passing in the mind of Giles Jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama.Far down below—so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him—a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. Farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter’s ear. Beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. Among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland.“If thus thy meaner works are fair,And beautiful beyond compare;How glorious must the mansions beWhere Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!”Jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. Nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. It was on one of the ledges of the Eagle Cliff that our hunter stood. At another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where Milly Moss met with her accident, Allan Gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him.“Higher up the pass you’ll have a much better chance, Mr Barret. Is it not so, Ivor?”The keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic Highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true.“Nae doot,” he said, “I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they’ll hev to pass close, either above or below him—an’ that’s maybe as weel for him wi’ his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o’ the pass is the next best place. The only thing is that ye’ll hev to tak’ sure aim, for there’s more room for them to stray, an’ ye may chance to git only a lang shot.”“Well, then, it is not the place for me, for I am a poor shot,” said Barret; “besides, I have a fancy to stay here, where I am. You say it is a very good spot, Ivor, I understand?”“Weel, it’s no’ that bad as a spote,” answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of Barret’s spirit as a sportsman; “but it’s ackward as the lawnd lies.”“Never mind. I’ll stay here, and you know, laird, that I have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece.”“That is more than Milly has,” returned the old gentleman, laughing. “However, have your way. Now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. I will take you, Mr Mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. And MacRummle—where shall we place him?”“He can do nothing wi’ the gun at a’, sir,” muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. “I wad putt him doon at the white rock. He’ll git a lang shot at them there. Of course he’ll miss, but that’ll do weel enough for him—for he’s easy pleased; ony way, if he tak’s shootin’ as he tak’s fishin’, a mere sight o’ the deer, like the rise o’ a salmon, ’ll send him home happy.”“Very well, Ivor, arrange as you think best. And how about Captain McPherson and McGregor?”“I’ll tak’ care o’ them mysel’, sir.”“Ye need na’ fash yer heed aboot us, laird,” said the skipper. “Bein’ more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. Iss that not so, Shames?”“That iss so—what-ë-ver,” returned the seaman.“Well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. How many did you get, Ivor?”“I’m not exactly sure, sir,” returned the keeper; “there’s Ian Anderson an’ Tonal’ from Cove, an’ Mister Archie an’ Eddie, an’ Roderick—that’s five. Oo, ay, I forgot, there’s that queer English loon, Robin Tips—he’s no’ o’ much use, but he can mak’ a noise—besides three o’ Mr Grant’s men.”“That’s plenty—now then—”“Please, father,” said Junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, “may I stop with Mr Barret?”“Certainly, my boy, if Mr Barret does not object.”Of course Mr Barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference.“I say, me boy,” whispered Pat Quin, “ask av I may stop wid ye.”Junkie looked at the Irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said—“Father, Quin says he wants to stop with me.”“You mayn’t do that, Quin,” returned the laird with a smile; “but you may go and stay with your master. I heard him say that he would like you to be with him to keep you out of mischief.”“Thankee, sor. I was used to attend on ’im in the jungles to carry his spare guns, for it’s ellyphints, no less, that we was used to bag out there; but I make no question he can amuse himsilf wid deer an’ things like that where there’s nothin’ better. He was always aisy to plaze, like Mr MacRummle.”“Just so, Quin; and as MacRummle knows the hill, and has to pass the place where Mr Jackman has been left, you had better follow him.”This arranged, the different parties took up their positions to await the result of the beating of a strip of dwarf forest, several miles in extent, which clothed part of the mountain slopes below the Eagle Cliff.On reaching the spot where Jackman was stationed, old MacRummle explained to him the various arrangements that had just been made for the comfort of all.“I am sorry they gave me the best place,” said Jackman. “I suppose it is because the laird thinks my experience in India entitles me to it; but I would much rather that Mabberly or Barret had got the chance, for I’m used to this sort of thing, and, after bagging elephants, I can afford to lay on my oars and see my friends go in and win.”“An’ sure, aren’t thim the very words I said, sor?” put in Quin.“Have they given you a good place?” asked Jackman of MacRummle, taking no notice of his man’s remarks.“They’ve given me the worst,” said the old man, simply; “and I cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, I can do nothing with the gun,”—still less with the rifle, he might have added! “At the same time, I confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if Ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. He thought I didn’t overhear him, but I did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than I deserve.”There was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that Jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman’s hand.“Mr MacRummle,” he said firmly, “will you do me a favour?”“Certainly, with pleasure—if I can.”“You can—and you shall. It is this: change places and rifles with me.”“My dear, kind sir, you don’t know what you ask. My rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance. I know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. Besides, I never used a repeating rifle in my life. I couldn’t manage it, even if I were to try.”“Mr MacRummle, are you not a Highlander?”“I believe I am!” replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile.“And is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?”“Well—I suppose it is so—at least it should be so.”“But you will prove that it is not so, if you fail to do me a favour that lies in your power, after promising to do it. Come now, we have no time to lose. I will show you how to use the repeater. See; it is empty just now. All you have to do is to take aim as you would with any ordinary rifle, and pull the trigger. When the shot is off, you load again by simply doingthisto the trigger-guard—so. D’you understand?”“Yes, perfectly; but is that all? no putting in of cartridges anywhere?”“No, nothing more. Simply dothat(open—and the cartridge flies out), andthat(shut—and you are loaded and ready to fire)! Now, try it. That’s it! Capital! Couldn’t be better. Why, you were born to be a sportsman!”“Yes, with fish,” remarked the gratified old man, as he went through the motions of loading and firing to perfection.“Now, then, I will load it thus. Watch me.”As he spoke, he filled the chamber under the barrel with cartridge after cartridge to the amazement of MacRummle and the amusement of Quin, who looked on.“How many shots will it fire without reloading?” asked the old man at length.“Sixteen,” replied Jackman.“What! sixteen? But—but how will I ever know how many I’ve let off?”“You don’t require to know. Just blaze away till it refuses to fire! Now, I must be off. Where is this white rock that I have to go to?”“There it is—look. A good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. If you have good eyes, you can see it from here. Look, just behind the ridge. D’you see?”“I see. Great luck to you. Do good work, and teach that rascal Ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. Come along, Quin.”“But really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to—”He stopped, for Jackman and Quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock.MacRummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. To say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved Highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the Eagle Cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. His enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the Eagle Cliff, and Jackman’s kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. In which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features.About the same time, Barret and Junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. Soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. Among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance.“Do you know, Junkie, that this is the very spot where your Cousin Milly fell?” said Barret, by way of directing the urchin’s thoughts into a safer channel.“Is it? Oh, dear,whata thump she must have come down!”“Yes, indeed, a dreadful thump—poor thing. She was trying to get flowers at the time. Do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?”“Oh, don’t I? She’s got books full of them—all pasted in with names printed under them. I often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. I don’t care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. But I often scramble after them for her.”“There is a good deal to like in flowers besides the smell,” said Barret, assuming an instructive tone, which Junkie resented on the spot.“Oh, yes, I don’t want to know; you needn’t try to teach me,” he said, firmly.“Of course not. I wouldn’t think of teaching you, my boy. You know I’m not a schoolmaster. I’m not clever enough for that, and when I was your age, I hated to be taught. But I couldshowyou some things about flowers and plants that would astonish you. Only it would not be safe to do it just now, for the deer might come up and—”“No they won’t,” interrupted the boy; “it’s a monstrous big wood they’ve got to pass through before they can come here, so we have time to look at some of the ’stonishin’ things.”“Well, then, come. We will just go a little way up the cliff.”Leading Junkie away among the masses of fallen rock, which strewed that ledge of the cliff, the wily youth began to examine plants and flowers minutely, and to gradually arouse in the boy’s mind an interest in such parts of botanical science as he was capable of understanding.Meanwhile the small army of beaters had extended themselves across the distant end of the forest, which, being some miles off, and on the other side of a great shoulder of the mountain, was not only out of sight, but out of hearing of the stalkers who watched the passes of the Eagle Cliff.All the beaters, or drivers, were well acquainted with the work they had to do, with the exception of Robin Tips, to whom, of course, it was quite new. But Ian Anderson put him under Donald’s care, with strict injunctions to look well after him.“Now, Tonal’, see that ye don’t draw together an’ git ta–alkin’ so as to forget what ye’re about. Keep him at the right distance away from ye, an’ as much in line as ye can.”“Oo, ay,” returned ragged head, in a tone that meant, when translated into familiar English, “Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs!”In a sequestered dell on the slope of the hills, a lordly stag and several hinds were enjoying themselves that morning among the bracken and bright mosses, partially screened from the sun by the over-arching boughs of birch and hazel, and solaced by the tinkling music of a neighbouring rill. Thick underwood concealed the dell on all sides; grey lichen-covered boulders surrounded it; no sound disturbed it save the faint cry of the plover and curlew on the distant shore, or the flap of a hawk’s wing as it soared overhead. Altogether it looked like a safe and sure retreat, but it did not prove to be so.Mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint—barely perceptible—sound of the human voice. The stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. It was by no means a new sound to him. The shepherd’s voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. The converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution—not alarm. But there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. He raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark—we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point—to his wives.These, meek and gentle—as females usually are, or ought to be—turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. Thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. Presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance.We regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the Eagle Cliff.Two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which Jackman and Quin were concealed. The others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them.“Sure it’s a purty stag, afther all,” whispered Quin, who, in spite of elephantine-Indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the Scottish red-deer. “But they’re a long way off, sor.”“Not too far, if the rifle is true,” said Jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight.“You’ll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor,” remarked the somewhat garrulous Irishman.“I won’t fire at the stag, Quin,” returned Jackman, quietly. “You and I have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. We can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again.”All this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. Seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. One of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope.Partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. So, at least, MacRummle discovered that day. After having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. These were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by Jackman, he had to watch two passes—one close above his post, the other close below it—either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. As it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. Then it became painful. At last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished.When Jackman fired his shot, MacRummle’s ears refused to convey the information to his brain. He still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. One of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. MacRummle was gazing at the lower track just then! Having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded.The sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman’s entire frame. He sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. Rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear.Depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. This was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which Jackman had sent bounding towards him. Another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. MacRummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. Bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. Never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the Eagle Cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. The old man took no aim whatever. He merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. Each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. Showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. Smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. The rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and MacRummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather!This unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. To Ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt.“There iss noise enough—what-ë-ver!” remarked Skipper McPherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness.“Look! look!” exclaimed Ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, “your friend McGregor has got a fright!”“Ay, that’s true. Shames would be troubled in his mind, I think.”There was indeed some reason to suppose so. The worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against Ivor’s advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. Just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. One of these McGregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. It was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation.“Look out!” whispered the keeper.As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor’s arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.“Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry,” remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.“Quick, man, fire!” cried Ivor, testily.The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.“Eh! man, are ’ee shot?” cried the captain, anxiously.“Oo, ay, but I’m none the worse o’ it! I had a presentiment o’ somethin’ o’ this sort, an’ loaded his gun wi’ small shot,” replied the keeper.Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that “treemendious” repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret’s face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.“An’ sure it’s no wonder at all,” was Pat Quin’s remark; “for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an’ me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy.”“Oh,dotell us about that,” cried Junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to Jackman.“So I will, my boys; but not now. It will take too long. Some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes.”“No, now,now!” cried Junkie.Seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, Jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began.

To some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles.

It may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. As we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around—and from the home-feelings thereby engendered—to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions “beyond seas.”

Some such thoughts were passing in the mind of Giles Jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama.

Far down below—so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him—a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. Farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter’s ear. Beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. Among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland.

“If thus thy meaner works are fair,And beautiful beyond compare;How glorious must the mansions beWhere Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!”

“If thus thy meaner works are fair,And beautiful beyond compare;How glorious must the mansions beWhere Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!”

Jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. Nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. It was on one of the ledges of the Eagle Cliff that our hunter stood. At another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where Milly Moss met with her accident, Allan Gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him.

“Higher up the pass you’ll have a much better chance, Mr Barret. Is it not so, Ivor?”

The keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic Highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true.

“Nae doot,” he said, “I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they’ll hev to pass close, either above or below him—an’ that’s maybe as weel for him wi’ his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o’ the pass is the next best place. The only thing is that ye’ll hev to tak’ sure aim, for there’s more room for them to stray, an’ ye may chance to git only a lang shot.”

“Well, then, it is not the place for me, for I am a poor shot,” said Barret; “besides, I have a fancy to stay here, where I am. You say it is a very good spot, Ivor, I understand?”

“Weel, it’s no’ that bad as a spote,” answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of Barret’s spirit as a sportsman; “but it’s ackward as the lawnd lies.”

“Never mind. I’ll stay here, and you know, laird, that I have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece.”

“That is more than Milly has,” returned the old gentleman, laughing. “However, have your way. Now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. I will take you, Mr Mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. And MacRummle—where shall we place him?”

“He can do nothing wi’ the gun at a’, sir,” muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. “I wad putt him doon at the white rock. He’ll git a lang shot at them there. Of course he’ll miss, but that’ll do weel enough for him—for he’s easy pleased; ony way, if he tak’s shootin’ as he tak’s fishin’, a mere sight o’ the deer, like the rise o’ a salmon, ’ll send him home happy.”

“Very well, Ivor, arrange as you think best. And how about Captain McPherson and McGregor?”

“I’ll tak’ care o’ them mysel’, sir.”

“Ye need na’ fash yer heed aboot us, laird,” said the skipper. “Bein’ more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. Iss that not so, Shames?”

“That iss so—what-ë-ver,” returned the seaman.

“Well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. How many did you get, Ivor?”

“I’m not exactly sure, sir,” returned the keeper; “there’s Ian Anderson an’ Tonal’ from Cove, an’ Mister Archie an’ Eddie, an’ Roderick—that’s five. Oo, ay, I forgot, there’s that queer English loon, Robin Tips—he’s no’ o’ much use, but he can mak’ a noise—besides three o’ Mr Grant’s men.”

“That’s plenty—now then—”

“Please, father,” said Junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, “may I stop with Mr Barret?”

“Certainly, my boy, if Mr Barret does not object.”

Of course Mr Barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference.

“I say, me boy,” whispered Pat Quin, “ask av I may stop wid ye.”

Junkie looked at the Irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said—

“Father, Quin says he wants to stop with me.”

“You mayn’t do that, Quin,” returned the laird with a smile; “but you may go and stay with your master. I heard him say that he would like you to be with him to keep you out of mischief.”

“Thankee, sor. I was used to attend on ’im in the jungles to carry his spare guns, for it’s ellyphints, no less, that we was used to bag out there; but I make no question he can amuse himsilf wid deer an’ things like that where there’s nothin’ better. He was always aisy to plaze, like Mr MacRummle.”

“Just so, Quin; and as MacRummle knows the hill, and has to pass the place where Mr Jackman has been left, you had better follow him.”

This arranged, the different parties took up their positions to await the result of the beating of a strip of dwarf forest, several miles in extent, which clothed part of the mountain slopes below the Eagle Cliff.

On reaching the spot where Jackman was stationed, old MacRummle explained to him the various arrangements that had just been made for the comfort of all.

“I am sorry they gave me the best place,” said Jackman. “I suppose it is because the laird thinks my experience in India entitles me to it; but I would much rather that Mabberly or Barret had got the chance, for I’m used to this sort of thing, and, after bagging elephants, I can afford to lay on my oars and see my friends go in and win.”

“An’ sure, aren’t thim the very words I said, sor?” put in Quin.

“Have they given you a good place?” asked Jackman of MacRummle, taking no notice of his man’s remarks.

“They’ve given me the worst,” said the old man, simply; “and I cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, I can do nothing with the gun,”—still less with the rifle, he might have added! “At the same time, I confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if Ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. He thought I didn’t overhear him, but I did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than I deserve.”

There was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that Jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman’s hand.

“Mr MacRummle,” he said firmly, “will you do me a favour?”

“Certainly, with pleasure—if I can.”

“You can—and you shall. It is this: change places and rifles with me.”

“My dear, kind sir, you don’t know what you ask. My rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance. I know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. Besides, I never used a repeating rifle in my life. I couldn’t manage it, even if I were to try.”

“Mr MacRummle, are you not a Highlander?”

“I believe I am!” replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile.

“And is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?”

“Well—I suppose it is so—at least it should be so.”

“But you will prove that it is not so, if you fail to do me a favour that lies in your power, after promising to do it. Come now, we have no time to lose. I will show you how to use the repeater. See; it is empty just now. All you have to do is to take aim as you would with any ordinary rifle, and pull the trigger. When the shot is off, you load again by simply doingthisto the trigger-guard—so. D’you understand?”

“Yes, perfectly; but is that all? no putting in of cartridges anywhere?”

“No, nothing more. Simply dothat(open—and the cartridge flies out), andthat(shut—and you are loaded and ready to fire)! Now, try it. That’s it! Capital! Couldn’t be better. Why, you were born to be a sportsman!”

“Yes, with fish,” remarked the gratified old man, as he went through the motions of loading and firing to perfection.

“Now, then, I will load it thus. Watch me.”

As he spoke, he filled the chamber under the barrel with cartridge after cartridge to the amazement of MacRummle and the amusement of Quin, who looked on.

“How many shots will it fire without reloading?” asked the old man at length.

“Sixteen,” replied Jackman.

“What! sixteen? But—but how will I ever know how many I’ve let off?”

“You don’t require to know. Just blaze away till it refuses to fire! Now, I must be off. Where is this white rock that I have to go to?”

“There it is—look. A good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. If you have good eyes, you can see it from here. Look, just behind the ridge. D’you see?”

“I see. Great luck to you. Do good work, and teach that rascal Ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. Come along, Quin.”

“But really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to—”

He stopped, for Jackman and Quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock.

MacRummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. To say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved Highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the Eagle Cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. His enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the Eagle Cliff, and Jackman’s kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. In which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features.

About the same time, Barret and Junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. Soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. Among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance.

“Do you know, Junkie, that this is the very spot where your Cousin Milly fell?” said Barret, by way of directing the urchin’s thoughts into a safer channel.

“Is it? Oh, dear,whata thump she must have come down!”

“Yes, indeed, a dreadful thump—poor thing. She was trying to get flowers at the time. Do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?”

“Oh, don’t I? She’s got books full of them—all pasted in with names printed under them. I often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. I don’t care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. But I often scramble after them for her.”

“There is a good deal to like in flowers besides the smell,” said Barret, assuming an instructive tone, which Junkie resented on the spot.

“Oh, yes, I don’t want to know; you needn’t try to teach me,” he said, firmly.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t think of teaching you, my boy. You know I’m not a schoolmaster. I’m not clever enough for that, and when I was your age, I hated to be taught. But I couldshowyou some things about flowers and plants that would astonish you. Only it would not be safe to do it just now, for the deer might come up and—”

“No they won’t,” interrupted the boy; “it’s a monstrous big wood they’ve got to pass through before they can come here, so we have time to look at some of the ’stonishin’ things.”

“Well, then, come. We will just go a little way up the cliff.”

Leading Junkie away among the masses of fallen rock, which strewed that ledge of the cliff, the wily youth began to examine plants and flowers minutely, and to gradually arouse in the boy’s mind an interest in such parts of botanical science as he was capable of understanding.

Meanwhile the small army of beaters had extended themselves across the distant end of the forest, which, being some miles off, and on the other side of a great shoulder of the mountain, was not only out of sight, but out of hearing of the stalkers who watched the passes of the Eagle Cliff.

All the beaters, or drivers, were well acquainted with the work they had to do, with the exception of Robin Tips, to whom, of course, it was quite new. But Ian Anderson put him under Donald’s care, with strict injunctions to look well after him.

“Now, Tonal’, see that ye don’t draw together an’ git ta–alkin’ so as to forget what ye’re about. Keep him at the right distance away from ye, an’ as much in line as ye can.”

“Oo, ay,” returned ragged head, in a tone that meant, when translated into familiar English, “Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs!”

In a sequestered dell on the slope of the hills, a lordly stag and several hinds were enjoying themselves that morning among the bracken and bright mosses, partially screened from the sun by the over-arching boughs of birch and hazel, and solaced by the tinkling music of a neighbouring rill. Thick underwood concealed the dell on all sides; grey lichen-covered boulders surrounded it; no sound disturbed it save the faint cry of the plover and curlew on the distant shore, or the flap of a hawk’s wing as it soared overhead. Altogether it looked like a safe and sure retreat, but it did not prove to be so.

Mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint—barely perceptible—sound of the human voice. The stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. It was by no means a new sound to him. The shepherd’s voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. The converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution—not alarm. But there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. He raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark—we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point—to his wives.

These, meek and gentle—as females usually are, or ought to be—turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. Thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. Presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance.

We regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the Eagle Cliff.

Two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which Jackman and Quin were concealed. The others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them.

“Sure it’s a purty stag, afther all,” whispered Quin, who, in spite of elephantine-Indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the Scottish red-deer. “But they’re a long way off, sor.”

“Not too far, if the rifle is true,” said Jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight.

“You’ll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor,” remarked the somewhat garrulous Irishman.

“I won’t fire at the stag, Quin,” returned Jackman, quietly. “You and I have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. We can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again.”

All this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. Seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. One of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope.

Partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. So, at least, MacRummle discovered that day. After having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. These were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by Jackman, he had to watch two passes—one close above his post, the other close below it—either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. As it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. Then it became painful. At last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished.

When Jackman fired his shot, MacRummle’s ears refused to convey the information to his brain. He still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. One of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. MacRummle was gazing at the lower track just then! Having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded.

The sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman’s entire frame. He sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. Rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear.

Depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. This was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which Jackman had sent bounding towards him. Another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. MacRummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. Bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. Never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the Eagle Cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. The old man took no aim whatever. He merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. Each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. Showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. Smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. The rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and MacRummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather!

This unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. To Ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt.

“There iss noise enough—what-ë-ver!” remarked Skipper McPherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness.

“Look! look!” exclaimed Ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, “your friend McGregor has got a fright!”

“Ay, that’s true. Shames would be troubled in his mind, I think.”

There was indeed some reason to suppose so. The worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against Ivor’s advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. Just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. One of these McGregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. It was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation.

“Look out!” whispered the keeper.

As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor’s arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.

“Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry,” remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.

“Quick, man, fire!” cried Ivor, testily.

The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.

When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.

“Eh! man, are ’ee shot?” cried the captain, anxiously.

“Oo, ay, but I’m none the worse o’ it! I had a presentiment o’ somethin’ o’ this sort, an’ loaded his gun wi’ small shot,” replied the keeper.

Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that “treemendious” repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret’s face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!

It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.

“An’ sure it’s no wonder at all,” was Pat Quin’s remark; “for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an’ me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy.”

“Oh,dotell us about that,” cried Junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to Jackman.

“So I will, my boys; but not now. It will take too long. Some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes.”

“No, now,now!” cried Junkie.

Seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, Jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began.

Chapter Eight.Jackman’s Wonderful Elephant Story.“Once upon a time,” said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything...“Yes,” murmured Junkie, nodding, “that’s the right way to begin.”“But you must not interrupt, Junkie.”“No, I won’t do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?”“Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points,” replied Jackman.“Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the ‘rogues,’ as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These ‘rogues’ are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.“For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don’t mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.“Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.“But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.“This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there.”“Troth, sor, an’ av it wasn’t for Chand Moorut (blissin’s on his great sowl, av he has wan, an’ on his body av he hasn’t) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin’, but me feelin’s overcomed me.”“No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I’ll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.“You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.“The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would runamuckto the great danger of every one. It happened thus:—“A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.“‘Keep out of his way,’ cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. ‘There’s something wrong with him to-day. I won’t bathe him, I think.’“‘Oh! he knows me well, and won’t harm me,’ returned the cutter.“The words were scarcely out of the man’s mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. Of course the poor man was instantly killed. When this deed was done, Mowlah Buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. He became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. In this effort he failed. The mahowt, though old, was active and strong. He managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant’s hind quarters as to be just out of reach. Luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off.“Had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. The poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. Finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as I have said, our Director had pitched his tent. My own tent was close beside his.“The first I heard of what was going on was from Quin, who came running into my tent, where I was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. Quin’s eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, I assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment!“‘Och, sor!’ gasped Quin, ‘Bowla Muk—no—Mowla Buksh—has gone mad entoirely!’“I jumped up quickly, you may believe, for I didn’t often seethatlook on Quin’s face, and when I did, I knew well that something very serious was in the wind.“‘Where away is he?’ I asked.“‘Sorrow wan o’ me knows, sor,’ said Quin.“Rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, I soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. In a few minutes I came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent Mowla Buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. On the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction.“Of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking Mowla Buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. Besides, our Director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out.“When I came up to the musketeers, I saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr.“The Bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. After the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. The Bulrampore men were as good as their word. Smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. Being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. He started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions.“Although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. He therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, I had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. He knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, I do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. All this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off.“The men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. But Mowla Buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. Whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. Gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees near the tent in which our Director’s wife had been seated all the time—with what feelings I will not pretend to guess. In this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on.“Strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. During one of these intervals he even succeeded in making Mowla Buksh partially sit down.“‘Och! now or niver! Off wid ye!’ yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! I need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!”“Ah! sor,” interrupted Quin, “don’t ye remimber how yourself was—but I’ll have mercy on ye! Go on, sor.”“Well, I confess,” resumed Jackman, “that I was a little excited. However, the Bulrampore men echoed Quin’s advice in eagerly expressed Hindustani. The mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! Fortunately the excited Mowla either did not perceive or did not care. He rose up and recommenced his work of destruction.“All this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes with which he was imperfectly bound. At last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction.“At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.“Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing—”“Skippin’, sor, ye said.”“Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him—”“Oh! was he killed?” exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question which sudden anxiety had forced from him.“But why wasn’t you killed?” he asked almost indignantly.“Whisht! honey, an’ ye’ll hear, av ye’ll howld your tongue.”“You must know,” continued Jackman, “that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.“At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was ‘method in his madness.’ Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.“I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, ‘Arrah! then, but hewasheavy!’”“An’thatmust have been true—what-ever” said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.“What you remark is true likewise, Shames,” said the skipper.“Go on—quick!” cried Junkie, eagerly.“Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.“The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster’s face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying—as if it had been a mere kitten—head over heels into a small hollow!”“Well done! Capital!” shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to “go on.”“There is not much to go on with now, my boy,” continued the narrator; “for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.“There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.“Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?”“Yes, but go on wi’ the hunt,” said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.“No, no, boys; you’ve had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us.”“Well, not much,” replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. “There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don’t expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we’ll be going.”“Shames,” said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, “I wonder if a good thrashin’ like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?”“Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don’t think it would,” replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.“You are right, Shames,” said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. “It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient.”“Then what for are ye always poonishin’ me, an’ tellin’ me to be coot, when ye say it won’t make me coot?” asked Donald.“Because, Tonal’, it iss my duty totellye to be coot, although I cannotmakeye coot, ye rascal!” answered the fisherman, sternly; “but I can make ye obey me by poonishin’ you—ay, an’ I wull do it too.”Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when “poonishment” would cease to secure even obedience—at least in his case!“You are right, Ian,” said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. “Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director’s aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre.”“But I want to know,” said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman’s side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, “why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?”“Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick,” said Jackman, laughing. “You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage.”“There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie,” remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.“Hold your tongues!” growled Junkie—the more classic “shut up” not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.“You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant’s head are not of equal thickness,” said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. “The only point in an elephant’s forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull.”With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother’s admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be “dood,” when her mother entered hastily.“Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear.”Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper’s mother—and love needs no persuasion.As we have said, Mrs Donaldson’s little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.“What caused the bruise, Maggie?” asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,—“Weel, mem, it was na Ivor’s fau’t, but the day before yesterday he cam in—fou—ye ken he’s fond o’ his glass, mem, an’ he was swingin’ aboot his airms, poor falla, an’ withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi’ sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye’ll no speak o’t to him—or to the laird.”“You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time.”“Thank’ee, mem, that’s just it. An’ he’s the best sons to me—whan he’s sober.”Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.

“Once upon a time,” said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything...

“Yes,” murmured Junkie, nodding, “that’s the right way to begin.”

“But you must not interrupt, Junkie.”

“No, I won’t do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?”

“Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points,” replied Jackman.

“Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the ‘rogues,’ as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These ‘rogues’ are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.

“For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don’t mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.

“Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.

“But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.

“This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there.”

“Troth, sor, an’ av it wasn’t for Chand Moorut (blissin’s on his great sowl, av he has wan, an’ on his body av he hasn’t) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin’, but me feelin’s overcomed me.”

“No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I’ll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.

“You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.

“The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would runamuckto the great danger of every one. It happened thus:—

“A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.

“‘Keep out of his way,’ cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. ‘There’s something wrong with him to-day. I won’t bathe him, I think.’

“‘Oh! he knows me well, and won’t harm me,’ returned the cutter.

“The words were scarcely out of the man’s mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. Of course the poor man was instantly killed. When this deed was done, Mowlah Buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. He became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. In this effort he failed. The mahowt, though old, was active and strong. He managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant’s hind quarters as to be just out of reach. Luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off.

“Had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. The poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. Finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as I have said, our Director had pitched his tent. My own tent was close beside his.

“The first I heard of what was going on was from Quin, who came running into my tent, where I was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. Quin’s eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, I assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment!

“‘Och, sor!’ gasped Quin, ‘Bowla Muk—no—Mowla Buksh—has gone mad entoirely!’

“I jumped up quickly, you may believe, for I didn’t often seethatlook on Quin’s face, and when I did, I knew well that something very serious was in the wind.

“‘Where away is he?’ I asked.

“‘Sorrow wan o’ me knows, sor,’ said Quin.

“Rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, I soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. In a few minutes I came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent Mowla Buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. On the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction.

“Of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking Mowla Buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. Besides, our Director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out.

“When I came up to the musketeers, I saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr.

“The Bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. After the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. The Bulrampore men were as good as their word. Smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. Being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. He started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions.

“Although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. He therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, I had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. He knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, I do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. All this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off.

“The men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. But Mowla Buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. Whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. Gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees near the tent in which our Director’s wife had been seated all the time—with what feelings I will not pretend to guess. In this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on.

“Strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. During one of these intervals he even succeeded in making Mowla Buksh partially sit down.

“‘Och! now or niver! Off wid ye!’ yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! I need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!”

“Ah! sor,” interrupted Quin, “don’t ye remimber how yourself was—but I’ll have mercy on ye! Go on, sor.”

“Well, I confess,” resumed Jackman, “that I was a little excited. However, the Bulrampore men echoed Quin’s advice in eagerly expressed Hindustani. The mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! Fortunately the excited Mowla either did not perceive or did not care. He rose up and recommenced his work of destruction.

“All this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes with which he was imperfectly bound. At last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction.

“At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.

“Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing—”

“Skippin’, sor, ye said.”

“Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him—”

“Oh! was he killed?” exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!

There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question which sudden anxiety had forced from him.

“But why wasn’t you killed?” he asked almost indignantly.

“Whisht! honey, an’ ye’ll hear, av ye’ll howld your tongue.”

“You must know,” continued Jackman, “that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.

“At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was ‘method in his madness.’ Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.

“I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, ‘Arrah! then, but hewasheavy!’”

“An’thatmust have been true—what-ever” said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.

“What you remark is true likewise, Shames,” said the skipper.

“Go on—quick!” cried Junkie, eagerly.

“Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.

“The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster’s face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying—as if it had been a mere kitten—head over heels into a small hollow!”

“Well done! Capital!” shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.

A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to “go on.”

“There is not much to go on with now, my boy,” continued the narrator; “for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.

“There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.

“Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?”

“Yes, but go on wi’ the hunt,” said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.

“No, no, boys; you’ve had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us.”

“Well, not much,” replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. “There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don’t expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we’ll be going.”

“Shames,” said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, “I wonder if a good thrashin’ like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?”

“Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don’t think it would,” replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.

“You are right, Shames,” said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. “It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient.”

“Then what for are ye always poonishin’ me, an’ tellin’ me to be coot, when ye say it won’t make me coot?” asked Donald.

“Because, Tonal’, it iss my duty totellye to be coot, although I cannotmakeye coot, ye rascal!” answered the fisherman, sternly; “but I can make ye obey me by poonishin’ you—ay, an’ I wull do it too.”

Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when “poonishment” would cease to secure even obedience—at least in his case!

“You are right, Ian,” said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. “Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director’s aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre.”

“But I want to know,” said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman’s side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, “why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?”

“Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick,” said Jackman, laughing. “You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage.”

“There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie,” remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.

“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.

“Hold your tongues!” growled Junkie—the more classic “shut up” not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.

“You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant’s head are not of equal thickness,” said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. “The only point in an elephant’s forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull.”

With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.

Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother’s admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be “dood,” when her mother entered hastily.

“Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear.”

Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper’s mother—and love needs no persuasion.

As we have said, Mrs Donaldson’s little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.

“What caused the bruise, Maggie?” asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,—“Weel, mem, it was na Ivor’s fau’t, but the day before yesterday he cam in—fou—ye ken he’s fond o’ his glass, mem, an’ he was swingin’ aboot his airms, poor falla, an’ withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi’ sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye’ll no speak o’t to him—or to the laird.”

“You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time.”

“Thank’ee, mem, that’s just it. An’ he’s the best sons to me—whan he’s sober.”

Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.

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