166 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



stand. This perplexity however does not last longer than 

 till the moment when some turn of events gives a chance for 

 the first shot. Then, with a tumultuous hubbub, the whole 

 company rises, and, while the rest disperse, the duck keep 

 wheeling round and round with amazing speed. It is a case 

 of load and fire, load and fire as fast as a breechloader will. 

 The judicious Hubshee sits wondering what all the fusillade 

 is about, and with some reason, for, if the truth must be 

 confessed, I find that duck have a most unaccountable way 

 of not coming down when shot. When at last a graceless 

 shoveller falls with a splash, he is in after it, and though 

 it has life enough left to try a dive, the gallant dog comes 

 of too good a stock (his father was the peerless Kootab- 

 un-deen) to relinquish the chase until he has pulled it out 

 by a foot, and safely deposited it on the grass. He does 

 not stay to mouth it, but plunges into the water for the 

 next and the next. In a few minutes all is over. The 

 duck have gone off to other tanks, and nothing remains 

 but to realise the bag. If this includes bringing to book 

 a wounded gadwall, it may be the chief part of the morn- 

 ing's work. The bird will take three charges of No. 5 with 

 the utmost complacency, and then, when it thinks the 

 thing is becoming monotonous, it will disappear in open 



