26o 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 fow' 

 seem to lie in a heap on the water. Soon, however, can be 



