My thoughts flew at once to Walter in this crisis, for I knew he was
bound to be had. Walter never does have game licences, season tickets,
adhesive labels, telegraph forms or things of that sort. And as he
had only returned from Canada two days before and this was the first
time that he had been out, and further as he immediately disappeared
and hid behind the hedge, I knew that my worst suspicions must be
confirmed. While the Excise Officer was taking down the names and
addresses of the rest of the party I went after Walter. He was sitting
in the ditch with his head in his hands.

"If this had happened a few years ago, old chap," he said, "when I
was a younger man, I should have run for it. But to-day I believe that
feller would overhaul me within half-a-mile. My wind's rotten. Do you
think he'll find us here?"

"Yes," said I, "he is coming this way."

Walter got up. "There must be some way out of it," he said
thoughtfully, "if one could only think of it." Then he boldly
confronted his accuser.

"Since you put it to me," he said, "no, I have no game licence. But
fortunately in my case it is not necessary. I am exempt."

The Officer stared at him a moment.

"Certainly it is necessary," he said.

"Kindly show me the form of this licence," said Walter in the most
lordly, off-hand, _de-haut-en-bas_ tone of voice, and the Officer