After this fourth experience I confessed that my nerve was considerably shaken. To go on living by myself in London was only to court disaster and live in daily expectation of a fifth attempt on my life. I need not trouble the reader with the details of my consultations with the Benedicts and my father, who became reconciled to me on hearing my story. The end of it was that, after a few months' strict seclusion with a coach in the country, I entered the Militia.
At L——, where I am stationed, I ought to be fairly safe among my brother officers and the soldiers. And yet, who knows? Perhaps Wyngate (who goes about openly in London, dines at the best restaurants, and stares defiantly at friends of mine who know the story) is tired of pursuing me, or thinks the game is not worth the candle. I hope so, at any rate, for I sometimes feel that if he keeps to his purpose he will, sooner or later, achieve it.
[DOLPHIN=HUNTING.]
By Victor Forbin.
A vivacious account by a French journalist of his introduction to a curious sport of which practically nothing is known in this country.
For a long time a hotbed of patriotic Anglophobia, St. Malo, the ancient city whose proud boast it is that it has never been conquered, has been of recent years quietly annexed, so to speak, by its former foe, and has become a popular resort with English tourists, so that the poorest of its shops is proud to display on its front windows the welcoming motto, "English spoken."
The Malouins themselves are the boldest sailors of France; it is a saying among them that "they have the love of the sea in their blood." The sons and grandsons of daring privateers, they pass nearly their whole lives at sea, many of them going every year to the Grand Banks of Newfoundland for the cod-fishing season.