rOLI^OWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST 35 



at noon. We put off at 2 o'clock, and were set by 2:30. 

 The wind blew hard from thei northeast. The redhead 

 is a bullet on that sort of a day. It is quite possible 

 to shoot all the way from five to fifteen feet behind one 

 of them going downwind, and it takes marksmanship to 

 snatch them out of the sky when th^e are turning and 

 twisting this way and that. We were getting our shoot- 

 ing caps on at that particular sport by this time, and you 

 know how good it feels? It makes tobacco taste good. 

 It makes duckshooting what it can be. It makes one's 

 blood tingle. The shells seem to be right. Your gun is 

 a dandy. It was fun to watch Brownie watching the 

 winged ducks swim under water — now leaping at them 

 and sousing his head under — ^now looking around puzzled 

 to see where the thing had got to. Then we chewed the 

 sweet bay leaves, which arei the same bay leaves we 

 have always tasted in soup. We enjoyed that shoot, and 

 yelled like boys at a happy hit. We killed twenty-five 

 redheads — ^but it was just as I have always thought^ — it 

 isn't the bag that counts, but the way they come. 



The season ended the day we got back to Rockport. 

 It was the last day of January. All the hunting boats 

 were in, the hunters were getting their blocks in the 

 boxes and hauling them up town. The boys were already 

 talking of fishing. The hunting had passed. I liked that. 

 It looked like good sportsmanship, which is one of the 

 things for which all true sportsmen should stand. 



