A MORNING ON THE MARSHES 337 



later a paddling of ten or a dozen ducks got up in a 

 bunch within twenty yards. The bustle in the sedges put 

 me on the qui vive, and, aiming at a bird flying in the 

 centre of the closely packed bunch, I pulled the trigger, 

 expecting to see at least a brace of fat wild duck drop to 

 the contents of the right barrel. An ominous click, how- 

 ever, told its own tale of a miss-fire. With a muttered 

 " blessing " on the head of the man who made that faulty 

 cartridge, I turned to get in the second barrel, but, to 

 my unspeakable disgust, I saw that the duck were heading 



straight for H , who, of necessity, was in the direct 



line of fire. " Why on earth didn't you shoot, man ? " 



coolly asked my facetious friend, after neatly dropping a 



couple of my duck. My reply will not bear repeating. 



Duck after duck, sometimes singly, and sometimes in 



small bunches, were sprung by H , who killed each 



time he fired. Indeed, I do not believe he missed three 

 birds during the whole morning, whereas I obtained but 

 three shots during the beat along the big fleet, and added 

 but one duck, and a miserable specimen of a coot, to my 

 bag, against eight and a half couple of duck, a leash of 

 coot and a moorhen, shot by my companion. 



It would be dull work for my readers were I to dwell 

 on the fact of how this duck was killed, how that missed, 

 how they rose or how they fell. Sufficient to say, the 

 fleets and dykes of the marshland yielded their full 

 complement of mallard and coot. 



