AT FLIGHT TIME 257 



" There is one down, anyway ! " ejaculates the amateur, 

 and having no dog, and somewhat fearful that the bird 

 may have but a wing down, and so escape to the open 

 creek by way of the runnel, he goes to gather it. 



But the mallard is dead enough and lies floating, 

 paddles upwards, in the water-course. As a truthful 

 man the amateur was fain to confess — to himself — that 

 it was a good deal more by luck than judgment he killed 

 that fat mallard, for truth to tell, he shot more by sound 

 than by sight. 



While the amateur is in the act of gathering the duck 

 from the runnel, the report of " Widgeon " Joe's 8-bore 

 again booms out, and a spring of teal come twisting and 

 screwing over the saltings like a flight of erratic rockets. 

 The i2-bore hes harmless on the bank of the runnel, 

 however, and the little duck continue on their flight sea- 

 wards, unscathed by the amateur who silently, albeit 

 roundly, anathematises them for flighting so inoppor- 

 tunely, forgetting, of course, he should not have vacated 

 the duck-hole. 



The flight of the fowl has now commenced in earnest, 

 the light improves perceptibly each moment, and the 

 amateur hastens back to his dank pit. 



From time to time " Widgeon " Joe's " ode shootin'- 

 iron " belches forth its heavy charge of black powder 

 and No. 3 shot, but though the amateur both hears and 

 sees more than one bunch of duck pass his " hide," all 

 are well out of range of a 12-bore gun. 



The brief period of the flighting time draws rapidly 

 to a close, for the daylight broadens, and a fiery red sky 

 proclaims the birth of a wet and stormy day. 



" May as well walk over to Joe and compare notes," 



