204 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



was still wrapped in slumber, for it was Yuletide, and the 

 hardy harvesters of the sea and their tan-sailed fishing 

 craft were lying snug in harbour. 



" Wind be right, tide be right, and Hoppy Guarnard 

 b'ain't gone afloat yet, that's sartin'," quoth Tom, 

 pointing towards the dim outline of a narrow, single- 

 handed gunning-punt hauled high and dry on the beach. 

 No; it was evident that "Hoppy" had not gone out 

 after the fowl. But, unfortunately, he was not the only 

 big-gunner we had to contend with. 



We embarked in the clumsy, old, double-handed 

 gunning craft, and shoved off from a little stone jetty 

 into what is locally known as The Gut, a narrow, 

 sinuous channel which runs through a vast expanse of 

 ooze-fiats and mussel-hards until it joins a more important 

 water-way called Mullet Creek. 



" Do 'ee get forrard, maister, while I sail t'owd craft. 

 'Tis dark as the Divil's nutting-bag, and ' The Gut ' do 

 twist and turn like any sarpint," said Tom, as he shipped 

 the steering-sweep in its crutch astern, and then set a tiny 

 lug sail on a broomstick-like mast. 



The skipper's order was obeyed promptly enough, no 

 questions being asked anent the colour of His Satanic 

 Majesty's nutting-bag ; and the scrap of canvas bellied to 

 the slight, but nevertheless biting, nor'-easterly breeze. 



Dark though it was, my companion navigated the nar- 

 row and difficult channel with unerring skill, and with- 

 out once touching ground. True, the wind was almost 

 dead astern, while the punt drew less than three inches of 

 water. Even so, had I, or any one but a native, been at 

 the helm we should probably have run aground about 

 once per minute. 



