THE LAST SHOT OF THE SEASON 125 



high marsh-dykes. A curlew, less wary than the maj ority 

 of its species, rises within easy range of the cripple - 

 stopper from a high bank of ooze which the incoming tide 

 has not yet covered, and, uttering shrill and far-reaching 

 cries of alarm, the long-billed bird speeds to the neighbour- 

 ing marshes, much to the disgust of Gilson, who mutters 

 something to the effect that his companion is too slow 

 "for a burying party, or he'd a-knocked that screechin' 

 ode varmint of a curloo down with the shoulder gun like 

 a robin." 



By this time it is sufficiently light to enable the 

 gunners to discern a small flock of grey plover assembled 

 on a tongue of slob on the opposite side of the creek. But 

 not a sign is there to be seen of the pochards. At length, 

 however, a number of dark forms are dimly observed 

 huddled together on the edge of a long, narrow ooze-flat, 

 situated about the eighth of a mile higher up the river, 

 and a laconic, " Theer they be," from old Gilson, puts the 

 youngster behind the swivel gun more than ever on the 

 alert. 



Foot by foot and fathom by fathom creeps the low, 

 grey craft towards the duck until they are almost within 

 range of the big gun rigged in her bows. Still, they do 

 not appear to heed the danger that lurks so near at hand. 

 But the clever old puntsman takes advantage of every 

 available bit of cover afforded by the intervening spits 

 of ooze and saltings, and as he sets to his fowl 

 almost dead-up wind they are unable to scent him. 

 Suddenly up goes the head of the nearest sentinel and 



