WILDFOWLING AFLOAT 93 



muzzles of the cripple-stopper and the fowl. Resting the 

 gun on the fore -coaming, I pulled at a couple swimming 

 almost breast to breast, and as the report rang out over 

 the frozen marshes both birds turned paddles upward. 

 The remaining brace flew off unscathed, for, to my dis- 

 gust, the second barrel proved a miss-fire. Having 

 gathered the widgeon, we advanced higher up the creek, 

 but during the next hour nothing wearing feathers was 

 met with. 



At length the welcome call of a grey plover came to 

 our ears, and, peering over the fore-coaming, I carefully 

 scanned every inch of the moon-lighted ooze lying ahead. 

 " Don't you see them ? " asked my companion in a low 

 whisper, as we neared a long spit of shelving mud situate 

 at the junction of a smaller waterway with New England 

 Creek. For a few minutes I could discern nothing 

 bearing the smallest resemblance to birds, but a closer 

 scrutiny of the ooze-flat revealed a small flock of waders 

 nimbly dodging here and there over its glistening 

 surface. 



" Grey plover ! Let 'em have the big gun ! " said 

 Jack, almost inaudibly. 



But at that very moment the deep boom of old 

 Gilson's eight-bore muzzleloader broke the dead silence 

 which reigned over that vast expanse of saltings, marsh, 

 and tide-way, and up rose the plover rather scattered. 



" A clean miss, begad ! " said M. disgustedly, after 

 I had pulled the trigger-line, adding, " I thought you 

 were good for at least a dozen of them." 



