Duck-sbooting 31 



and I believe could easily have tripled the number 

 under ordinary circumstances. But soon came an 

 incident which marked a bitter day with a bright 

 line, and I see that flock of ducks as I write. 

 There were six, and, as out of the storm they came, 

 straight for the blind, the brick-colored head of 

 the leader and his white back marked their na- 

 tionality. They were canvas-back, and what's 

 more, our first. The flock turned out of range 

 of the stool, but the old drake didn't, he just 

 plunged ahead and came right over us about 

 forty feet up. I remember gripping the stake 

 in front with one hand and just shooting straight 

 up in the air; a mighty big splash told some- 

 thing had happened. I turned around and saw 

 him, a little way off and right side up, but shot 

 through the head. This was the finish ; we 

 could stick it out no longer. Wat picked up 

 the stool ; he had killed six ducks from the shore. 

 The total bag was eight ; our clothes were stiff 

 with ice. Then comes the remembrance of lying 

 on the floor in front of the blazing fire of pine 

 knots in William Knox's house. A knock on the 

 door, it was Wat. " Have some hot whiskey, sah ? " 

 I often think, in looking back on some ducking 

 days, that much of the real fascination lies in the 

 comfort and warmth that sooner or later relieve 

 the misery of wet and cold. 



