260 THE COMPLETE WILDFOWLER 
channel, for its occupants well know that a hundred yards 
or so higher up, a creek intersects the flats where the massing 
fowl are moving. Into and up this creek the punt swiftly 
rushes, carried by the incoming tide, which will soon raise 
it to a level with the birds. Inch by inch, the punt 
rises, as inch by inch it nears the fowl, which latter are 
curiously packing up, half in fear, half inquisitive of the 
unusually sudden appearance of the punt. All around is 
now open water. The task of the fowler is to pole over the 
shallows towards the fowl, which by now, being set afloat 
on the rising tide, are packed together as close as herrings 
in a barrel, but yet one hundred and thirty yards from the 
punt. Ah! cruel luck, the punt strikes ground ahead and 
swings hopelessly off the birds. This seems to make the 
fowl uneasy, but they do not rise. ‘‘Wait for the tide. 
Be cautious, and don’t flurry. The birds still remain,” are 
the whispered orders of the moment. 
Once again the punt floats free. With a few powerful 
strokes of the pole, aided by the tide in the right direction, 
the little craft swings to her course, not farther than ninety 
yards from the birds. Any time now, thinks the gunner, 
yet he does not become over-eager, as he knows a nearer 
shot can be got. Seventy yards from the birds, and up they 
spring in a black mass. Steady! wait! pull! And as the 
quivering ‘‘brepp!” echoes and roars over the water, and 
some forty ounces of BBB speed on to strike the fowl, the 
gunner dips his head below the smoke just in time to see the 
shot take them, and, apparently, half the company come 
tumbling back. 
‘Watch for droppers!” is the simultaneous exclamation 
of the punters. So cleanly has the shot killed, that ‘‘drop- 
pers” are few. The shot has proved a good one—‘‘a well- 
timed flying raker.’”’ For a moment all the stricken fowl 
seem to lie in a heap on the water. Soon, however, can be 
