ON GREENLAND AT DUCK-FLIGHT. 41 



Cuck is delighted at being invested with the 

 game bag, and perfectly comprehends what is 

 required of him. Greenland is not more than 

 half a mile away, and we shall reach it as the 

 dusk sets in. The sun is already half sunk 

 below the horizon, which flames over the chill 

 glistening waters, a frigid depressing waste of 

 grey tide unrelieved by a single sail or even 

 the glint of a sea-bird's wing. When we arrive 

 at the beginning of Greenland, Cuck, who is 

 thoroughly acquainted with the grounds, leads 

 the way to an ambush constructed of a couple 

 of barrels sunk in the peat and filled with 

 straw a precaution taken that morning. 

 Close to the kegs is a pool as black as ink, and 

 with a sort of polished slime on its surface, and 

 the reflection in it of a single cloud-wrack of a 

 brazen stormy colour. Cuck nestles snugly in 

 his barrel, peering with intense eagerness 

 towards the western sea-line, from which we 

 expect our quarry to come. His old battered 

 hat is thrown off, the wind comes and blows 

 aside his thin straw-hued hair, and his big baby 

 eyes seem the more wistful for the momentary 

 gleam of an unusual purpose and intention in 



