the cat which always used to accompany "Scott's lot," from Malton to Leatherhead for the Epsom week, and which were so much at home in the stables that they used to jump from back to back of the horses. The Queen and Prince Albert honoured them with a visit in the year 1840, when her Majesty went to the Derby and saw Little Wonder win; and from that day forward the dog was renamed "Vic." In the dining-room, with other pictures of Daniel O'Rourke and "the mighty West," are portraits of John Scott and his second wife, and the imagination is not slow to conjure up the days when there gathered round the board so many of the great trainer's employers and friends-the two words were synonymoussuch men as Lord Westminster, General Anson, Lord Chesterfield, Mr. Gully, Lord Derby, Major Yarburgh, Mr. Watt, and the Hon. S. Hawke, and coming down to our own day, but still speaking only of the dead, Mr. John Bowes, Lord Falmouth, Mr. Rudston Read, and Baron Martin, the two last-named of whom were appointed his executors. What a pity that there was not among them all another Mr. Greville (minus the venom) to hand down, for the delight and instruction of future generations, a record of those "noctes ambrosianæ," in which some of the most gifted talkers and finest judges of racing were heard at their best !

But the day is drawing to a close, the long shadows of the evening are being stretched out, and who would leave Whitewall and Malton without paying if it be but a flying visit to Spring Cottage, where lived and died a trainer scarcely less famous than the master of Whitewall. It was at Spring Cottage that William I'Anson-who now rests beside John Scott in the quiet graveyard where so many headstones are inscribed with names ever to live in racing story-brought back Queen Mary in triumph from Scotland; and it was there that she bred him Blink Bonny the peerless, herself the dam of Blair Athol and Breadalbane. It was at Spring Cottage, too, that Caller Ou first saw the light; and Malton still looks and longs for the day when another Blair Athol or Caller Ou shall come to judgment.

C. B. PITMAN.

Seaside Shooting in the Tropics.

HE who wants to do any shooting in the Eastern Tropics should not be afraid of getting wet. The dry season does not afford much chance of sport with the shot-gun, unless it is a blaze at a passing wild duck in the dusk, or the shooting of hares, which are only to be found in exceptional places; or small deer, which are better killed with the rifle. And in the

wet season you must be content not only to walk for hours in a shallow morass, consisting of mud covered with water, but also at very short notice to take a natural shower-bath of rain, discharged upon you by a black mass of clouds which will come up out of the west at an incredible pace, encroaching upon the bright blue sky with giant strides, and pouring down its contents with a vigour unknown to those who live in temperate climates. The sort of sport that you are likely to get in a chance descent upon any tropical shore, will not be unlike that which our small party found when we were becalmed for a few hours off the Indo-Chinese coast.

In a drenching downpour-for it is useless to wait for the off-chance of improvement-we start in the dingey to explore, making for the bamboo huts which, dimly appearing through the rain, give indications of a fishing village. Our guns, in waterproof cases, our flasks, tobacco-pouches, and ammunition are all the paraphernalia that we take with us, except, indeed, the vast cigar-case, or rather, cigar-portmanteau which always accompanies our friend MacMullen. Passing a rough wooden pier, supported on light poles, we reach the shingly beach in front of the huts, where a keen eye can just detect a few brown-skinned natives, half hid in the doors and window-frames, and peering with a timid wonder at such unexpected visitors. From the most courageous and intelligent of these we learn that we can go just where we like (except into the Temples), and shoot what we like, except men, women, and elephants. What game there may be our interpreter, Rhodes, is not clever enough to make out, until the bright idea strikes me of resorting to a piece of chalk. With this, one of the youths pourtrays on the teak wall various objects of the chase. Most of these, and especially the plao, which seems to be in highest esteem, might pass for anything, from a wild goose to a quail ; but the crane or heron is easily recognised, and the snipe, with his long bill, is of course unmistakable. Finally the artist reproduces for us a creature which is apparently a cross between a crocodile and an elephant. We naturally fail to understand; but then there is a great laughing on the part of the others, and the same sentence is shouted out to him by several of them. Whereupon he promptly supplements the animal with a corkscrew tail, and amidst the great hilarity of the party, we all with one accord burst into a cry of " pigs.' "Yes, wild pigs, by Jove!" says the interpreter, "but we can only get them by night; so after you have done with the snipe, my boys, you can make a night of it with your rifles in the jungle.' We agree to do so, and if successful to present the boar's head to his Excellency the Governor of the Province. MacMullen distributes some of the excellent manillas which he always affects in these latitudes, and we sacrifice the contents of one of our flasks, at the taste of which the elders

smack their lips but shake their heads, and the youngsters cough and wink their eyes. Then we hand our guns to our friends, who inspect them with much interest, and we set off for our walk along shore, one of the big boys shuffling along with us, and exhibiting some pride in his position as cicerone. The flat shore, which looked so bushy from the sea, opens out as you go along it into broad expanses, by no means well calculated either for walking or shooting. A bank of dry white sand above high water mark is bounded on the right by a vast mud-flat, growing wider and wider as you leave the landing and the village. Only at the very far edge of it, close to the slow lapping sea, is to be seen the long row of sea birds, which look as if they would be good for the pot. Nearer at hand a few white gulls are promenading over the mud, or skimming lazily on the wing across it; but even if it were worth while to shoot at these, which it isn't, their bodies would fall on to the soft brown surface, and could only be reached by trampling at least knee-deep through the thickest mire. On the other side of our dry sand-bank the ground sinks away again down to a succession of low-lying meadows, now flooded nearly a foot deep by the heavy rains. We are on an irregular tongue of land, ranging in breadth from fifty yards to half a mile; here covered only with scraggy grass and tangles of low bush, there dotted with small patches of brambly jungle, and a little further on shadowed by great trees rising out of a soil covered with decaying leaves and bark, and bordered by strips of bright green turf sloping down to the flooded

meadows.

We are not long finding out what is the mysterious game so much recommended to us under the name of " plao." Rounding a clump of bamboos, up gets a little party of five small brown doves, very prettily marked. An exclamation of disappointment escapes from the little guide. He thinks we ought to have stalked them and "potted" them on the ground. But when I drop one at fifty yards, just as he is skimming over a thicket, disappointment is exchanged for wild joy; and these first-fruits of sport seem to the boyish mind to give promise of almost unlimited slaughter by semi-miraculous methods. We lose the first victim, however, as no human body can force its way far enough into the stubborn jungle to reach the dead dove lying invitingly upon it, about twelve feet away. On the next occasion I try to cut down the dove as he rises, before he can get up above the thicket, for which he makes at once. But these doves are rather shy, and we make plans, for another day, of" driving" the line of bushes for a battue at one end. Meanwhile doves are not the only occupants of the thickets and tufts. At one opening we catch sight of a heavy, thick-set bird, of an intensely brown colour, which Rhodes declares to be a "crow-pheasant." A fine race he leads us, dodging round

from bush to bush, and hiding safely in places where one ought to be able to see him quite easily, until a loud general attack upon one circular stronghold of thorns dislodges him, and he falls an easy victim as he bundles along over the open. Then there are moorhens at the edge of the shallow water, and waterrails, which fly so slowly that it seems an age before they are far enough away to shoot. And out of one shady bay, where big water-lilies abound, a big, many-coloured wild duck jumps up, offering the easiest of shots to MacMullen, who is only six yards behind. MacMullen is not a good shot-far from it, and in his delight at seeing the duck flop down into the pool he dashes after it with more zeal than prudence, instead of leaving our half-naked guide to do the retrieving. Alas for the cigars Below the fifteen inches of water is a two-foot layer of very soft mud. The first plunge takes him over the knees; and at each successive step his feet sink deeper and deeper into the sticky clay. Before the dead duck is reached the lower edge of his light jacket is well under water, and it is not till he has got back to dry land, and begins to shake himself like a Newfoundland dog, that he considers, with horror, the probable fate of the pocket portmanteau. We rescue it with all speed from the drenched pocket, pull out the weeds, and feebly attempt to dry them with our handkerchiefs. But the handkerchiefs are wet too, and we all come to the conclusion that the shot of which MacMullen is so proud is the unluckiest he ever made. And we look upon the dead body of the duck with a lively regret seldom felt for his species.

Then the light begins to fail, just as the neck of dry land along which we have been walking widens out into a sort of dry salt-marsh, interspersed with scraggy, low bushes, and producing a sort of dull green grass, looking as likely for snipe as can be. We must get back now, and reserve this ground for another day. There is just light enough, as we near the hamlet, to see a small flock of teal coming along, and they pass right overhead. A volley from all three guns brings down half a dozen fat fellows, who are secured in the twinkling of an eye by our delighted beater. So we return, not exactly loaded with spoil, but far from empty-handed, with a bag consisting of three brace of teal, one wild duck, one crow-pheasant-if that is his real name a moorhen, two water-rails, five doves, a longshaped piratical-looking cuckoo which we shot at a venture, and one curlew. The doves are bestowed on our friends the cottagers, who seem to have so great an admiration for them; and so are the water birds, all except the curlew, which is condemned for curry. Rather a mistake this, by the way, for though the curry was excellent, a tropical curlew is too good a bird for so ignominious a fate. The teal we discuss that very evening, and although there are two of them apiece for us, we find that, with the aid of Nepaul pepper and the juice of a fresh

lime, we can demolish them as easily as we can floor our bottle each of Léoville.

The pig-hunt-or rather pig ambush-I regret to say, turns out to be a snare and a delusion, though the rain has abated, and the moon puts in an appearance now and then. We divide our time between walking about in a listless way along the open rides cut through the jungle, and trying to sleep on a boarded, roofed platform called a "sala," raised a yard above the ground on stout posts, and looking rather like a giant fourposter. What with the mosquitoes, which seem to regard us with special but very one-sided affection, and with the superfluous zeal of MacMullen, who from time to time discharges his rifle at tufts of grass, we get no rest at all, and leave off by regarding the wild pigs-very erroneously, perhaps as a myth. At the earliest streak of dawn we rout up from his tranquil slumbers our faithful Chinese "boy," the inseparable companion of all campaigns in this region, and console ourselves for past miseries with a fragrant cup of coffee. Wild pig stalking at night may be an excellent sport when you know exactly where to go and how to set about it, but when undertaken as a chance amusement after a good day's walk the day before, its discomforts seem to outweigh its attractions considerably.

A bath in the deep green water among the rocks under the trees makes us feel rather more as if we had slept a little, and less as if we had been devoured alive by mosquitoes. Nevertheless we think that reading novels on the yacht will be enough occupation for us till luncheon-time; and it is more than two hours past midday before we are landed at the edge of the flat plain which looked yesterday so inviting for snipe. Here MacMullen leads off by inhumanely potting an unsuspicious bittern, and is with difficulty restrained from murdering a big white heron which is stalking about among the pools as if the whole shore belonged to him. When the snipe shooting begins he retires from the field towards the woods further inland, and we hear him from time to time afterwards blazing away, "probably at small dicky birds," as Rhodes unfeelingly suspects. Meanwhile we get to work merrily; and work it is, without any mistake! The expanse, which from the edge of it looked like a continuous green field, turns out, upon nearer inspection, to be a series of shallow sheets of water, topped by the sprouts of rough grass which grow out of it, and interspersed with insular patches of sloshy turf, and occasional stumps or logs of decaying black wood buried, or half buried, in the soft soil. As you toil along in the fierce sunlight you may expect each foot, after getting to the bottom of the shallow water, to sink at least six inches into the mud. This, however, is nothing more than one expects in a tropical marsh. The mischief is that the ground here is pitted in all directions with the footmarks of buffaloes, which seem to have been industriously