120 A MEDLEY OF SPORT 



of a gunner very frequently, and having sent Tommy 

 speeding across the marshes to the homestead for my 



12 -bore and cartridge bag, I walked over to H , and 



invited him to try and get a shot at the shovellers ; 

 provided, of course, they remained on the salts until the 



boy returned with the gun. But H would not hear 



of this, notwithstanding that he is a very much better 

 shot than myself, and a keen wildfowler to boot. 



When Tommy returned, he pointed out a boundary 

 gate, standing on the top of the sea-wall, with the 

 remark, " The drain where they ode shovel-bills dropped 

 runs within a rod o' that theer gate." 



Putting a couple of cartridges loaded with No. 5's 

 into the chambers of my gun, I started on a bee-line 

 across an extensive lucerne marsh towards the gate in 

 question, which stood about a quarter of a mile distant 

 from the fleet. 



At length, after crossing one other dyke, I arrived 

 at the base of the sea-wall, and, noiselessly climbing up 

 the grassy side of the same on " all fours," I gained the 

 top without having heard the warning note of alarm 

 shoveller duck almost invariably give upon being dis- 

 turbed into taking wing. 



Pushing the barrels of my gun through the long, 

 rank grass growing on the crown of the escarpment, and 

 keeping my head well screened behind this rough cover, 

 I scanned every muddy rill and gully within view. But 

 no sign of anything in the shape of fowl was there to be 

 seen. Suddenly, however, up got the duck I was in 



