446 RIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS 



i st was a Sunday), and we determined to make the 

 most of it, albeit our chances of success in so extremely 

 mild a season were remote. Accordingly, after vainly 

 trying - to sleep for a couple of hours on two hard oak 

 chairs, I turned out at midnight, and passing through the 

 tortuous little street, paved with the shells of defunct 

 generations of mussels and cockles, proceeded to launch 

 our trim little craft, the Boanerges gunn'm^-punt. First the 

 big gun had to be loaded : down her long barrel rattle 

 the 30 drams "Colonel Hawker," followed by 10 oz. of 

 BB — the priming is carefully inserted, and the cap fixed. 

 Then she is gently adjusted into position, breech-ropes 

 secured, gear, ammunition, etc., all stowed, everything 

 in its place, for aboard a gunning-punt there is not a 

 square inch of room to spare- — and away we go. With 

 a brilliant moon, dead-calm sea, and flowing tide, we 

 proceed right merrily, and hopes rise rapidly- — on so 

 favourable a night surely we shall manage a heavy shot at 

 the wigeon! But it was not to be. At 2 a.m. a change 

 came over the scene. The western horizon suddenly 

 banked up with cloud-masses, and we presently heard afar 

 that strange rustling sound, like the distant rumble of an 

 approaching express, which at sea foretells wind. On it 

 came. In ten short minutes driving clouds were scudding 

 across the moon, and what had been calm white water 

 was lashed into a confused black mass. For some time 

 we persisted in shoving to windward, but all efforts to 

 gain the weather-shore were vain. Sea after sea broke 

 into us, and the chance for the night was clearly gone : 

 for a couple of weary hours we sought shelter on a 

 desolate bent-grown sandspit. Then the ebb tide forced 

 us to quit this refuge, and make the best we could of our 

 passage back— to bed. Thus ended attempt No. 1 — a 



