THE LOST JOKE 125 
were black with feeding ducks. Jimmy took a squint 
through the glass and said: 
‘‘Pintail Neck is the place for us to-day.” 
‘‘And where is Pintail Neck?” I asked. 
‘It’s where you see all those ducks,’’ he answered. 
‘*There was something I wanted to ask you, but those 
ducks won’t wait and my question will; let’s get ready 
and start after them.”’ 
Generally we rowed to and from the shooting grounds 
and to-day I supposed we would do the same, but I got 
left, walking was good enough that day. We rowed up 
the river until we reached the canal, a feeder from the 
river to the East Lake. Here we walked, towing the 
boat with a double rope, Jimmy on one bank, I on the 
other. The canal was a mile-long cut-off, avoiding a 
three-mile row round by the river. We routed out a 
number of ducks from the canal as we went along, but 
the big bunch that started up when we came out at the 
west end of the canal made a noise like a freight train 
and looked like an enormous flock of gigantic blackbirds. 
It was a beattiful sight to see this immense flock of 
ducks whirl in the air with such curious ease and pre- 
cision, twisting and turning at some hidden signal, 
without so much as rumpling a feather and as grace- 
fully as if they were a modest bunch of peep. From the 
lake entrance to the canal I walked a mile and a half 
through mud six inches deep, while Jimmy kneeled on 
one knee in the stern of the boat and pushed it ahead 
with his foot,—there was not enough water to row. It 
was hard walking and several times I called a halt and 
sat on the boat and rested. 
At last we reached a likely looking point, covered with 
tules, that jutted out into Pintail Bay. At its extrem- 
ity was a tumbled-down blind, evidently an old-time 
