A STOLEN MARCH 243 



of the wildfowler afloat when, after a long and difficult 

 set to a company of fowl, he finds himself gradually but 

 surely approaching within shot of his quarry ; and when 

 through the uncertain light of early morning I sighted 

 right ahead an indistinct, but nevertheless unmistakable, 

 assembly of duck, numbering perhaps three hundred 

 head, closely packed upon a comparatively small patch of 

 tide-lapped slob, I tell you that the blood simply raced 

 through my veins, while I longed to tug at the trigger- 

 string and send a pound of shot pellets hurtling into 

 the dense mass of the feathered ranks. 



" Don't pull until they rise from the slob," came the 

 almost inaudible, and quite unnecessary order from the 

 old gunner. Hardly had the command been given, and 

 while the birds were still out of range, to my utter surprise 

 and unspeakable disgust a bright flash spurted out of 

 a small gut which drained into the main gully at a point 

 about three hundred yards above us. Then came the 

 deep report of a punt-gun. The fowl rose in a bunch 

 and headed towards the open estuary. Then, giving vent 



to a mighty d , the old gunner shipped the sculls 



and pulled slowly and silently up a salting-fringed creek 

 in the forlorn hope of picking up a stray duck or curlew 

 with the shoulder guns. 



Half-an-hour later a sprightly young wildfowler came 

 poling along the creek in a light, single-handed punt, 

 the floor of which was richly decorated with widgeon, 

 duck and teal. It was Gilson's youngest offspring, 

 and roundly did the old man rate him as a " pesky, un- 

 dutiable son " for having spoilt for us the best chance of 

 the season. 



