150 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
There is a lot of fascination in coot shooting and a coot 
shooter once is a coot shooter always. 
We arrived late in the afternoon and a bunch of half 
a dozen white-winged coot hanging beside the door of 
the shanty gave a sporting and encouraging look to 
things. 
George was always ambitious and when the alarm 
clock rattled and banged at four A.M. I let him get up 
and start the fire. It was impossible though to take 
another nap as I was nominated and unanimously 
elected to go out to the well and get a bucket of water. 
The stars were shining and there was enough and to 
spare of a penetrating cold east wind. 
An hour later we pushed off from the beach. The 
decoys, some of them wood, the rest topheavy-looking 
canvas affairs, all painted in coot raiment to the last 
dot were piled up in the bow, the guns and lunch 
stowed safely in a dry cuddy in the stern. It was a 
toughish job rowing against a strong head wind, with 
the salt spray dashing over us. 
Two boats were in line ahead of us; we could hear the 
men in them talking. Another boat took up the berth 
alongside while we were setting out our decoys. Each 
decoy had a long line and an anchor to hold it in place. 
The wooden decoys settled right down to business, but 
the big canvas ones dipped and wabbled about like 
drunken sailors. Then we backed our boat down forty 
yards to windward and anchored. The anchor rope 
was fastened toa buoy, all ready to be thrown overboard 
whenever dead or wounded birds were to be retrieved. 
It was a cold wait to daylight; meanwhile we matched 
for first shot at singles and agreed to shoot together at 
flocks, George to shoot at the leading birds and I the 
rear ones. 
