Chapter Thirty.
Missing.
Every one stared at Watty, he was so completely transformed from the sulky, ill-conditioned lad who assisted the cook. The Scottish blood in his veins was fired by the sight of the deer and recollections of the stalking he had witnessed in his own Highlands, when he had been with one or other of the keepers, and his eyes flashed as he saw the advance made with the rifled guns.
It proved to be no laborious stalk, for the deer did not apprehend danger. The captain brought down one, the doctor another, while Steve, although he rested his heavy rifle on a stone in taking aim, missed an easy shot. He did better later on, though, for another opportunity occurred enabling him to creep within sixty yards of a buck with large spreading antlers, and he was about to fire at the animal as it stood with head erect looking round listening to a sound in the distance, when there was a hard breathing just at his shoulder.
“Watty, you here?” he said.
“Ay. She cam’ to see her shute. Tak’ a lang straight aim this time, laddie. Dinna miss the beastie for bonnie Scotland’s sake. Quick, or she’ll be gane! Tak’ care; reet i’ the shouther.” Bang! “Hey, but ye het her!”
For as the report of Steve’s piece rang out and echoed from the side of the mountain, and again from a ridge
