144 A MEDLEY OF SPORT 



baling-out operation with an old tin basin was the work 

 of a very few minutes, and, making myself as comfort- 

 able as circumstances allowed, I prepared to receive any 

 fowl that might condescend to pay me a visit. I began 

 to wish that I had brought my favourite old retriever 

 with me, for shore-shooting is but solitary work at the 

 best of times, and waiting up for fowl in a muddy pit is 

 the acme of solitude. 



I had not been in my hiding-place many minutes when 

 the boom of a swivel gun re-echoed over the tide. The 

 puntsman mentioned earlier herein had evidently got a 

 shot into the company of fowl assembled in the bay ; but 

 as to whether or no he killed anything I was unable to 

 tell, as a high ridge of sand screened the bay from my 

 sight. Shortly after a " fanning " of wings overhead 

 caused me to look skywards, when I saw a huge flock 

 of green plover passing in a southerly direction, and far 

 out of range. Then came a long wait, without anything 

 of more importance than a small trip of redshanks flying 

 within shot of the pit, and as the banks were all awash 

 by this time, I began to think my sport for that morning 

 at least was finished. The unexpected often happens 

 to the shore-shooter, however, and just as I was putting 

 a No. 10 shot cartridge into my left barrel on the " off- 

 chance " of meeting with a snipe during the return 

 journey, a familiar and welcome " whe-oh " from some- 

 where close at hand gladdened my ears; and a few 

 moments later a little lot of widgeon came quietly 

 drifting into the creek with the tide. The birds were 



