IN WET COMPANY. 
THE day was run down. The wet mud of 
the estuary turned, for a moment or two, 
to a sheet of molten glass, died down to purple 
and port-wine, and went out in steely gleams. 
Save for a glaze of green sky in the west, all 
became dark. 
A sudden chill shiver ran over the scene. 
The last gull had laughed himself into 
scornful silence, when there was the swish of 
wings. The ‘flight,’ that mysterious move- 
ment on the winter estuary, had begun. It 
would last perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten, 
and then would be over till the next night. 
Once, as the wings whistled past, a duck 
quacked suddenly in quite homely fashion ; 
once a snipe said ‘S-c-a-a-p-e!’ back in the 
black marshes; once one dunlin out of an 
invisible passing flock ‘ p-u-r-r-e-d ;’ and once 
the sword-like song of great wings told of 
travelling swans. 
Suddenly dark figures in silhouette streaked 
across the last glimmer of western light. 
There were nine of them, moving at express 
speed in a perfect V. A soft, clear whistle 
swelled over the dank air. ‘ Wheu-u, wheu-u, 
wheu-u!’ it called three times, and, swinging 
