A NIGHT'S BIG GUNNING 341 



on its side and lay kicking spasmodically on the knee-deep 

 mud. 



" Masterful purty shot that wor, sir, and Oi couldn't 

 heve done it much better meself," graciously vouchsafed 

 my companion, as he fastened on his mud-pattens before 

 venturing across the treacherous slob to gather the 

 slain. 



Having retrieved the fowl, and very carefully washed 

 the mud from the pattens with mop and icy sea-water, 

 Gilson again took his place in the stern, and, with power- 

 ful strokes of the setting-pole, he skilfully navigated the 

 punt round the headland and into the mouth of a small 

 tidal river or creek, from the salting and ooze-flat-fringed 

 shores of which we hoped to pick up a few waders, with, 

 perchance, a mallard, widgeon, or teal to boot. 



Keeping well into the left-hand shore of the creek, 

 Gilson poled, with unerring skill, clear of every jut of 

 salting, tongue of slob, and black-ground. Every few 

 minutes he would stop in his poling to listen to the calls 

 of the various kinds of wildfowl which were borne down 

 to us on the " cat's-paws " of wind. 



" Hark 'ee, maister ! Do ye hear they widgeon ? " 

 suddenly asked my companion, in a whisper. 



Notwithstanding that the early morning was as silent 

 as the grave, I failed to distinguish the shrill whistle of a 

 widgeon from the varied calls of the waders inhabiting the 

 creek. Suddenly, however, the unmistakable and wel- 

 come " whe-oh " came to my ears, and, apparently, at no 

 great distance from the punt. The call put me more on 



