Wanderer waded, sure that it must wheel;
wheel it did, after flying five hundred yards,
and passed back close over his head. Down
it came, plump as a stone. Alas! only a
gool duck, with its buff breast and saw-
toothed bill; and a mother too, for out
from the weedy point of the island, diving
in unconcern, paddled her five young,
earning their own living already, though
they were only wingless little lumps of
down. The Wanderer bagged his bird
disappointedly, for he had made sure of a
mallard.

A shout from Hamish Shaw! He was
pointing backward up the loch, and shouting
out a sentence, of which only one word
—"geese!"—was audible. The Wanderer
crept stealthily to the water's edge, and
espied a number of large birds seated on
the water a quarter of a mile away. The
telescope soon proving the blissful truth
that these were indeed geese, it was
hurriedly arranged in pantomime that Hamish
should creep back and press the birds
gently forward, without approaching so
close as to compel them to rise: while the
Wanderer, with his dog, crouched behind a
rock on the water's edge, ready to slaughter
the unwary ones as they swam past.

It was one of those periods of awful
suspense known only to the man who shoots
—the knees soaking in muddy weeds, the
perspiration rolling down the cheeks; an
unaccountable and fiercely resisted desire to
sneeze suddenly taking possession of the
nose; one eye, in an agony, glaring command
on the dog,the other peering at the approaching
game. And now, horror of horrors! it
is beginning to drizzle. The spectacles get
misted over every minute, and they are wiped
with a hand that trembles like an aspen leaf.
Suppose the rain should spoil the percussion
cap, and the piece, at the last moment,
refuse to go off? There they are, little
more than a hundred yards away: a mighty
gander, grey-headed and jaunty, leading
the way, a female a few yards behind, then
another gander and his wife, lastly, four
fat young geese, nearly as big as their
parents, but duller in their attire and far
less curious in their scrutiny of surrounding
objects. Hush! the first gander is abreast
of us. We have to hold down the dog by
main force. We do not fire, for our hearts
are set on the young brood; they will be
tender, and papa will be tough. Perdition!
Schneider, driven to frenzy, and vainly
trying to escape, utters a low and hideous
whine; the old ganders and geese start in
horror; they flutter, splash, rise; and there
is barely time to take rapid aim. at one young
goose, just dragging itself into the air, when
Schneider plunges into the water, and the
whole portly covey are put to rout.

As the smoke of the gun clears away,
one goose lies splashing on the surface,
grievously wounded; him Schneider
approaches to secure, but appalled by a hiss,
a beat of the wings, a sudden sign of showing
fight, turns off and would retreat
ignominiously to shore. Dire is the language
which the Wanderer hurls at her head,
bitter are the reproaches, bitter the taunting
reminiscences of other mishaps by flood
and field; till at last, goaded by mingled
shame and wrath, Schneider turns, showing
her teeth, despatches the foe with one fell
snap, and begins trailing him to shore.
Meanwhile, the Wanderer hears a loud
report in the distance, unmistakably the
voice of Benjamin, adding to the list of
slain.

Flushed with triumph (for at least one
meal was secure) the Wanderer slung the
spoil over his shoulder, patted the dog in
forgiveness of all sins, and made his way
over to the other side as rapidly as possible.
Arrived there, he looked everywhere for
Hamish, but saw no sign of that doughty
Celt. At last his eye fell on something
white lying among the heather; and lo! an
aged gander, blood-stained, dead as a stone.
Then, emerging from the deep herbage,
rose the head of Shaw; a ghastly sight;
his face all cut and covered with blood.
An old story! Held in hands not well
used to his ways, Big Benjamin had taken
advantage of the occasion, and, uttering his
diabolical roar, belching forward and kicking
backward, had slain a gander and
nearly murdered a man, at the same time.

A little water cleared away the signs of
battle, but Hamish still rubbed his cheek
and shoulder, vowing never to have any
more dealings with such a gun as long as
he lived. After a rest and a drop of water
from the flask, tracks were made homeward,
and, just as the gloaming was beginning,
the fruit of the forage was triumphantly
handed over to the cook on board the
yacht.

Blessings do not come singly. By the
side of the yacht, and nearly as big as
herself, was a boat from shore, offering for sale
new potatoes, fresh milk, and eggs. On
board were a shepherd and his wife, who,
living in an obscure bay of the loch, had
only just heard of the yacht's arrival. The
man was a little red-headed fellow, wiry
and lissome; his wife might have passed for