Many years ago there was a watchman up in the Goinge regions. He was a wild fellow, who, one evening, while drinking with his neighbours, more tipsy and more talkative as the hour grew late, boasted loudly of his marksmanship, and offered to wager that, with his trusty gun, he could give them such an exhibition of skill as they had never before seen.
      "There goes, as I speak," said he, "a roe on Halland's Mountains."
      His companions laughed at him, not believing that he could know what was transpiring at a distance of several miles, which was the least that lay between them and the spot indicated.
      "I will wager you that I need go no farther than the door to shoot him for you," persevered the watchman in defiant tones.
      "Nonsense!" said the others.
      "Come, will you wager something worth the while? Say two cans of ale."
      "Done! Two cans of ale, it shall be." And the company betook themselves to the yard in front of the hut.
      It was a frosty autumn evening. The wind chased the clouds over the sky, and the half moon cast fitful reflections through the breaks over the neighbourhood. In a few minutes a something was seen moving rapidly along the edge of a thicket on the farther side of a little glade. The watchman threw his gun carelessly to his shoulder and fired. A derisive laugh was echo to the report. They thought no mortal could shoot a deer in flight in such uncertain light and at such a distance.
      The watchman, certain of his game, hastened across the glade, followed by his companions. To them the event meant at least two cans of ale.
      It would not be easy to picture the surprise of the doubters, when, on arriving at the thicket, they discovered, lying on the ground, bathed in foam and his tongue hanging from his mouth, a magnificent stag, pierced through the heart by the deadly bullet, his life blood fast colouring his bed of autumn leaves a brighter hue.
      What unseen power has brought this poor animal from Halland's Mountains in a bare half hour? Such were the thoughts of the watchman's companions as they retired in silence to the hut.
      The watchman received his two cans of ale, but no one seemed inclined to join him in disposing of them. They now understood with what sort of a man they were having to do. It was evident to them that the watchman was in league with the Evil One himself, and they henceforth guarded themselves carefully against companionship with him after dark.