THE LAST SHOT OF THE SEASON 



HOUGH the morning 

 is still "pitch" dark 

 old Gilson, professional 

 wildfowler and ex- 

 smuggler, picks his way- 

 down the narrow, 

 crooked street of his 

 native fishing village, his 

 heavy iron-studded sea- 

 boots creating a great 

 clatter on the cobble- 

 stones with which the 

 old-time footway is paved. The riding-lights of weather- 

 bound vessels anchored in the fairway dance merrily this 

 morning, and the thunder of the North Sea combers 

 breaking upon the treacherous sand-bar is so heavy that 

 the old gunner mutters audibly : "It 'on't do to 

 wenture outside the creeks in the gunnin'-punt this 

 marnin'," as he walks along the ancient stone jetty 

 which acts the threefold purpose of a rendezvous for the 

 local gossips ; a wharf for the landing of goods from coast- 

 ing vessels and fishing smacks, and, in stormy weather, 

 a breakwater against which the " white horses " dash 

 and leap when driven hard by the fury of the wild nor'- 

 easter. A spark that wanes and waxes, — though not of 



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