A week's DUCK SHOOTING AT POOLE. 13 



was a rougli-looking affair^ bound round tlie grip witli 

 whipcord^ and entirely guiltless of browning; but a 

 mallard tbat flew within seventy yards of that instrument 

 stood as small a chance as a barn-door owl would at the 

 hands of a Hurlingham " dovebutcher/' 



'^Well, Simon, what's it to be ?'' 



^^ May as well go home, sir ; weather too clear, and no 

 wind ; they'll sky like anything to night." 



Posting ourselves behind two bushes, we waited 

 patiently. Presently a trip of wigeon went whistling 

 over our heads a hundred yards up ; then came a bunch 

 of ducks, rushing by like a whirlwind far out of shot. As 

 I am staring vacantly up over head, " Look out, sir, on 

 your right ! " says Bill, at the same time presenting his 

 double. I look and see nothing, and nine-tenths of my 

 readers would have seen nothing also. Bang ! go a 

 couple of wire cartridges somewhere close to my left ear, 

 and a splendid mallard comes down all of a heap forty 

 yards off. 



^^ Why didn't you fire, sir ? " 



^^ Fire ! why, I saw nothing." 



" Why, eight or nine ducks flew close over you." In 

 fact. Master William had " wiped my eye " pretty clean. 



The birds kept coming in, but all high. The best time 

 for flight shooting is when the wind is high and against 

 the birds ; then they fly low and keep well together, and 

 if you have a good stand you can keep yourself, dog, and 

 man employed for an hour. (N.B. — Unless he is a good 

 one, leave Ponto chained up at home.) I once killed 

 seventeen fowl at this spot with a single-barrelled gun 

 in one evening, the birds flying so close sometimes as 

 almost to graze the ridge where I was posted. 



We got no more shots that night, and, emptying the 



