RIVER SHOOTING. 347 



the oars, and off she sHdes into the water. The fog 

 seems to have grown denser. It is impossible to dis- 

 tinguish objects over a dozen boat lengths away. Five, 

 ten, fifteen minutes are tipped off by the dip of the oars ; 

 still the fog hangs about us like a thick veil, denying 

 even a glimpse of the shore for which we were steering. 



''Say, old man, how's this?" cries Jim, pointing to 

 a stake we have almost collided with. I feel much pro- 

 voked, for I recognize our starting point. We have 

 made a circuit. Jim produces a small compass attached 

 to a watch-chain; we take our bearings carefully and 

 try again. This time the trees come out of the fog to 

 meet us, for we have made the opposite shore. The boat 

 glides on just out of reach of the overhanging bushes. 

 A great blue crane flops out of a tree above us, and, 

 with a harsh cry that startles Dan, disappears in the 

 fog. 



Easy now. Here is the narrow stream leading up 

 through the marsh. We change positions, Jim moving 

 up to the bow with his gun, while I settle in the stern 

 to paddle. The first bend, and no ducks. The stream 

 now is scarcely wider than the boat. Water bushes are 

 bent aside to enable us to pass, taking care not to dis- 

 turb an ugly-looking wasp nest with its wicked owners 

 asleep on the outside. I give the boat a shove around 

 the next turn. Up rise several ducks. Bang! bang! 

 goes Jim's gun. A clean miss with the first barrel, 

 but the second drops its victim all in a heap, as limp as 

 a wet dish-rag. Another comes out of the wild rice at 

 my very elbow. The paddle slips into the water as I 



