THE MORNING FLIGHT 



" Do yu be at the dole-stone at six to-morrow marnin', 

 Maister Jack. Chance us may get a shot or two from t' 

 owd duck-holes on the salt-marshes, and chance us 'on't," 

 were the parting words of old " Bumble " Toogood, the 

 professional wildfowler, as he bade Jack Meredith, the 

 Vicar's nineteen-year-old son, good-night. Then he 

 clattered homewards along the crooked, cobble-paved 

 High-street of the old-time fishing hamlet of Babbleton, 

 which lies on the fringe of a vast expanse of sea-walled 

 and dyke-drained marshes. 



" All right, Bumble, I'll be there, and if there are 

 no duck to be had, we'll find a few waders or an old cob 

 [gull] along the foreshores, you bet ! " came the cocksure 

 reply of the young gunner, than whom not a more ardent 

 wildfowler could be found anywhere between the Black- 

 water estuary and the Wash. 



True to his word, Bumble Toogood turns up at the 

 dole-stone (parish boundary-stone) just as the clock of 

 the grey Norman church, hard by, strikes the appointed 

 hour. Upon one broad shoulder he carries a well-oiled 

 double lo-bore pin-fire gun, and over the other is slung 

 a home-made and dressed canvas cartridge bag. " Crab," 

 an aged, but still good enough looking, retriever, whose 

 red-brown coat has from constant immersion in salt 

 water become bleached to the tinge of drab-yellow, trots 



at his master's heels. 



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