With throbbing pulse and with the instincts of a fox - or
prehistoric man, 'tis all the same - I crawled and dragged
myself through the peat bog and the pools of water. But
nearer than two hundred yards it was impossible to get; even
to raise my head or find a tussock whereon to rest the rifle
would have started any deer but this one. From the hollow I
was in, the most I could see of him was the outline of his
back and his head and neck. I put up the 200 yards sight and
killed him.
A vivid description of the body is not desirable. It was
almost fleshless, wasted away, except his wounded haunch.
That was nearly twice its normal size; about one half of it
was maggots. The stench drove us all away. This I had done,
and I had done it for my pleasure!
After that year I went no more to Scotland. I blame no one
for his pursuit of sport. But I submit that he must follow
it, if at all, with Reason's eyes shut. Happily, your true
sportsman does not violate his conscience. As a friend of
mine said to me the other day, 'Unless you give a man of that
kind something to kill, his own life is not worth having.'
This, to be sure, is all he has to think about.
