A STOLEN MARCH 



" We sighted a wonderful gert pack o' widgeon on the 

 banks 'smarnin', an' I shall be after 'em well afore sun-up 

 to-morrow. If so be as ye'd care to come along o' me 

 you're welcome, maister." Gaffer Gilson, professional 

 wildfowler and fisherman, having delivered the foregoing 

 unwonted flow of oratory, called somewhat boisterously 

 for a " go of rum in water," charged and lighted a very 

 short and over-ripe-looking clay pipe with a wooden 

 spill, and seated himself in a highly polished and particu- 

 larly uncomfortable Windsor chair before a huge driftwood 

 lire, which blazed and crackled ever so cheerfully on the 

 wide, open hearth of the old-time wainscoted inn parlour 

 that forms my headquarters during periodical visits to 

 my favourite fowling-grounds. 



Yes, of course, I would accompany the old big-gunner 

 on the morrow, for although I had enjoyed some fairly 

 good shore and flight shooting, never a shot had I fired 

 from a gunning-punt during the fortnight's sojourn in 

 the " one boss " little town of H., which stands on the 

 fringe of a vast expanse of marshes, and overlooks a 

 certain East Coast estuary, the sanctuary of legions of 

 wildfowl in the winter months. 



I was up betimes next morning, but ere I had finished 

 my usually early breakfast I heard the clatter of Gilson's 

 heavy sea-boots on the cobble-stones outside, and a 

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