ABSTRACT
The end of October-the legal close of the alltoo-short chamois season in the Herzegovina-was at hand. My poor friend Miller summed it up in a few words: "First half, too hot to move, sheep on all the stalking-ground; second half, rain and mist." There is much truth in this pithy summary, and in this year the season ended in a succession of wet days. On the morning of the thirtieth I woke to the patter, patter, of the raindrops on the outer fly of the tent; but when coffee had been despatched the min had stopped, and, though the day looked desperately bad, I decided
to try my luck, and, loading my indefatigable Duran with my "Breadalbane" mackintosh, in addition to my ruck-sack, I sent him for the hounds. Dorothy being /tors-de combat from snakebite the previous hunting day, I could only t~ke a couple, but these were reliable. Less than two hours' walk brought us to old Zaklan's kuca (house), and I proceeded to enlist his services and take his advice. The old man was far and away the best sportsman I met here, and reminded me to some extent of my Ceylon trackers. He never failed to find me game, though, of course, a single sportsman must be lucky to get a shot over hounds. I always let him have the little rifle I had used in Dalmatia, but he never hit anything with it. The mighty hunter of this country is not used to the bullet, a handful of slugs, nails, etc., being more in his line, and even then a standing shot must be obtained. This they get by giving a low whistle, which brings most animals to a momentary standstill.
