152 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
the first one and killed the second before I could get 
my ten gauge in action. It was a handsome double. 
Our final shot was at a bunch of five strung out one 
behind the other. They came over us pretty high up, 
but we each got one. George killed the leader. I fired 
at the third in line and the end bird crumpled and 
came down. As usual my aim was not far enough 
ahead. 
Our position, generally one of the best places for good 
shooting, was too far out. The wind was too strong. 
The main flight passed nearer the shore and while 
several of the boats had very nice shooting, we had but 
scattering shots. After several hours of watching the 
more fortunate shooters, we pulled up the anchor, 
gathered the decoys, and headed for the shanty, fol- 
lowed by several of the farthest offshore boats, 
Peaked Cap and his chum, a big blonde giant of a man, 
who also preferred shooting in a boat by himself, came 
to the shanty for dinner. They were friends of George; 
lived twenty miles away and intended to drive home 
that evening. It was in the good old days of horse 
travel. George cooked the dinner. We had a Cape 
Cod fish chowder—the kettle first lined with slices of 
salt pork, then a layer of fresh codfish, then a layer of 
potatoes and onions cut up, and these layers repeated 
until the kettle was nearly full. This had simmered, 
not boiled, on the stove all the morning. We all did 
justice to it, but Peaked Cap had four plates full. 
Then we had a famous coot pie. Who cared if the top 
crust was a trifle tough and the lower crust a bit soggy? 
It was coot pie and we were coot shooters. 
After dinner Peaked Cap said to George, ‘‘ You’re an 
old hand at shooting coot, and know their ways pretty 
well; why is it that there is always a big flight of coot 
