A NIGHT'S BIG GUNNING 339 



on the tide, or nimbly quartered the ooze-flats in search of 

 food. 



But it is time to embark, for my honest friend and 

 fellow fowler has already launched the punt, and gotten 

 all the paraphernalia aboard. With the handkerchief- 

 like balance-lug sail bellying to the breeze, we draw 

 slowly away from the little quay, which is piled high with 

 empty fish-trunks and baskets, and is redolent of herrings, 

 sprats, and other ancient and fish-like odours. The tide 

 has only just commenced to flow, and there are barely 

 six inches of water under our flat-bottomed and some- 

 what crank craft. Very soon, however, we enter a 

 narrow gut which runs into a more important waterway, 

 used by local fishermen as a haven in which to moor their 

 smacks. Suddenly, with an uncanny croak, a heron rises 

 like a grey phantom from a spit of slob, within a dozen 

 yards of the punt, and away over the tide he flaps, the 

 moonbeams silvering his great fan-like wings. 



At the passing of the heron I take the 8 -bore from its 

 canvas case, and, having inserted a cartridge loaded with 

 black powder and No. 4 shot, I rest the long barrel of 

 the gun on the fore-coaming, and carefully scan the un- 

 covered flats lying on the starboard hand. The moon 

 being directly ahead of the punt, every object lying 

 within range of the heavy shoulder gun was easily dis- 

 cernible from the low-sided craft. Moonlight is very 

 deceptive, however, and more than once I was very 

 nearly pulling at a bunch of dunlin, having mistaken the 

 little waders for worthier fowl. 



