A week's duck shooting at POOLE. 9 



I rather fancy lie slipped in an ounce or two of " Bristols^' 

 just to fill up any chinks . 



Straight down we went^ Ted looking as calm as a 

 sentry, just squinting over the weather bow at the 

 birds,, as if he was not noticing them in the least. 

 Confound it, he must be near 'em now ! What, nearer 

 still ! 



'^ Now, Sir, when I luffs her up, you must jump and let 

 •'em have it strong ; " and sure enough a moment after 

 down went the helm, and tip she came shaking. '' Now, 

 Sir, their heads are up ; look out ! " Up I started, and 

 right under our bows, about forty yards off, were, I should 

 say, two or three hundred wigeon ! 



Bang ! went the " piece of ordnance," making a 

 lane through them like a charge of grapeshot ; as they 

 flew up they received the contents of the double; and 

 after that. Bill, who had been aiming away all the while 

 like an artilleryman, let fly the single, and knocked over 

 a couple and a cripple at seventy yards off. 



And now into the punt for the cripples, the best fun 

 of all j and away we go, firing at them, knocking them 

 over with sculls — poor Fan and Tim at their wit's end 

 what to make of it ! By Jove, this is glorious ! Why, 

 that one shot is worth all I pay for the whole week. 



On gettiug back to the smack and counting our 

 spoils, we found we had bagged eighteen widgeon, a 

 couple of redheads, and a pair of , spoonbills — very 

 handsome birds. These two latter I immediately sent 

 off to Hart at Christchurch, and they serve to this day 

 to remind me of my old Poole days. 



In this running-down sport everything depends on 

 the helmsman, as you yourself are concealed beneath 

 the bows. If he brings you straight up to your birds. 



