In the Haunts of Wild Fowl 109 



grand storm days do not fall on Sundays, it 

 is downright rabbit's foot luck. 



At night in the snug crew's quarters for- 

 ward, there is the hum of sportsman indus- 

 try. The boys are loading shells with number 

 two shot for brant. 



The wind is howling a steady gale from 

 the north and increasing the length of its 

 gusts with steady persistence. 



"Hear them shrouds talkin'?" cried 

 George with a broad grin. " If this wind 

 hangs on here till mornin' we'll burn them 

 brant. Confound 'em, they're the most 

 tantalizin' bird that ever pitched in this bay. 

 I never killed a one of 'em the whole of last 

 winter. There were no younguns among 

 'em. It's funny. Some years there's thou- 

 sands of younguns. But last year I didn't 

 hear the squawk of a dozen, and you can't 

 kill an old brant. This year the bay's full 

 of 'em and we'll burn 'em up to-morrow — 

 see if we don't." 



