"A Sako, .264 Magnum caliber, which a friend loaned me to try."
"Very well. It is a fine shooting cartridge."
"Didn't you find it a bit heavy?" I asked. "I have one and know it has a good, healthy wallop."
"Oh no," she said. "My favorite gun is a .375 Magnum, which is considerably heavier." At that I swallowed the olive in my martini.
The next day my host told me that this slender, 110-pound girl hunted in Africa and India frequently, had made the very difficult crossing from Tibet to India and had just returned from a six-month trip walking around Mount Everest. She was a great friend of the hostess, and whenever she wanted a change from city life she came to Keir to spend a day on the moors stalking deer. After dinner she caught the night train for London.
And so the week sped by, six days of great shooting, six days of fine companionship, six days of wonderful hospitality. I shall never cease to be grateful to Frank Denton and Bill Whiteford, who enabled me to have this truly wonderful experience.
Sunday morning we packed away our gear, drove in two Jaguars to Prestwick and had lunch at the dining room in the beautiful new airport. That afternoon we had a glimpse of Greenland and Labrador through the cloud cover and, in due course, just before dark, we landed in New York. Just seven days before, we had headed out at about the same time—and in that brief period I had shot more birds than in a lifetime of hunting.
Some days later I received from Colonel Stirling's secretary the official scorecard of the shoot. It reads:
"A Sako, .264 Magnum caliber, which a friend loaned me to try."
"Very well. It is a fine shooting cartridge."
"Didn't you find it a bit heavy?" I asked. "I have one and know it has a good, healthy wallop."
"Oh no," she said. "My favorite gun is a .375 Magnum, which is considerably heavier." At that I swallowed the olive in my martini.
The next day my host told me that this slender, 110-pound girl hunted in Africa and India frequently, had made the very difficult crossing from Tibet to India and had just returned from a six-month trip walking around Mount Everest. She was a great friend of the hostess, and whenever she wanted a change from city life she came to Keir to spend a day on the moors stalking deer. After dinner she caught the night train for London.
And 
so the week sped by, six days of great shooting, six days of fine companionship, six days of wonderful hospitality. I shall never cease to be grateful to Frank Denton and Bill Whiteford, who enabled me to have this truly wonderful experience.
Sunday morning we packed away our gear, drove in two Jaguars to Prestwick and had lunch at the dining room in the beautiful new airport. That afternoon we had a glimpse of Greenland and Labrador through the cloud cover and, in due course, just before dark, we landed in New York. Just seven days before, we had headed out at about the same time—and in that brief period I had shot more birds than in a lifetime of hunting.
Some days later I received from Colonel Stirling's secretary the official scorecard of the shoot. It reads: