THE LAST DAY OF WILDFOWLING. 279 



From midday till dusk we stuck to them. Every "dodge" 

 we knew was tried. We " set " to them, sailed, paddled, 

 drifted all in vain. Hour after hour slipped fruitlessly 

 away, and the only result of our manoeuvres was that towards 

 dusk we had their scattered companies now all congregated 

 into one solid, compact phalanx of Geese, perhaps a thou- 

 sand strong. There they sat, only half a miJe from us, and 

 just as the sun "took the hill" we commenced our last 

 supreme effort. Alas ! it was now a full quarter's ebb, and 

 before we had approached within two gunshots of them we 



took the ground. Just then S nudged me and pointed 



out a couple of score of " Whews " (Wigeon) sitting on the 

 mud- edge away to the right of us. Half in despair we hove 

 our bows round to starboard to give them a trial ; but it, too, 

 failed. As luck would have it, a single pair was swimming, 

 unobserved, in the black water between us, and these, rising 

 close at hand, shifted the rest. 



There now only remained the Geese, far up on the slobby 

 ooze. As a final tactic, I determined to try for a flying shot 

 (by "tipping" the big gun) as they went to sea at night. 

 Accordingly we let the punt drive with the tide till we lay 

 directly on their course to the seaward channel. Then we 

 shoved in as near the mud-edge as was safe to go on the ebb, 

 and waited patiently. The night was still and calm, the 

 western sky aglow with the glorious hues of sunset, and not 

 a sound audible but the gentle lapping of the tide against 

 the punt, and the loud arid weird babble of voices from the 

 thousand throats in front of us. What a concert ! No 

 music sweeter to my ear ; no articulate words more expres- 

 sive of intensely watchful security, of guarded suspicion, than 

 their varied intonations. At last the critical moment arrived, 

 the moment which was to decide all our hopes and fears. 

 " They're up ! " With a roar like the distant rumbling of 

 thunder, the sonorous host take wing for the open sea. Will 

 they come our way ? . . . Yes ! straight for us, prone on 

 our chests, head the leaders, and in ten seconds the sky 

 above us is flecked with moving masses, and seamed with 

 strings of "black half-moons." "Now then, sir! let 'em 

 have it ! " hisses S , as I fumble for the eighth part of a 



