THE MORNING FLIGHT 193 



Jack Meredith, who impatiently awaits the advent of 

 the old gunner, sits on the ancient landmark, puffing 

 away at one of those special blends of pungently aromatic 

 " Egyptian " cigarettes which appear to be obtainable 

 in small country towns and villages. Bumble Toogood, 

 however, declines to accept one of these fumy luxuries, 

 declaring the while that " they all-flamed paper smokes 

 be only fit for hobbidies [boys] and white-necked ink- 

 slingers." Never yet did he meet with a gunner worth his 

 salt who smoked aught but a pipe or cigar. 



It is but a short walk from the dole-stone to the high 

 sea-wall which, during the Hanoverian dynasty, was 

 erected round what in those " good old " days formed 

 a vast area of tide-lapped foreshores, but which to-day 

 forms exceedingly fertile dyke-and-fleet-intersected 

 marshes. Beyond the sea-wall lies a desert of sand, 

 ooze, and salting, and beyond again the grey foam-flecked 

 waters of the North Sea. 



The fowlers cross the escarpment, and, picking their 

 way through the darkness over a patch of glasswort and 

 sea-lavender-covered saltings, they arrive at a small 

 and shallow pit sunk in the salts, near the mouth of a 

 small tidal creek. 



The recent spring tides have left the gunning-pit, or, 

 as it is locally called, duck-hole, well-nigh full of water, 

 and, bidding his young companion " hasten and gather 

 an armful of quicks [couch-grass], while Oi diddle [bale 

 out] t' owd duck-hole," Bumble Toogood sets to work 

 with a will to bale out the superfluous sea-water from 

 the pit with a superannuated bucket, while the youngster 

 forages round the sea-wall for the required litter to render 

 the duck-hole tenable. 



