IN WET COMPANY. 211 
as if on the end of a wire, the flock checked, 
swerved, showing a gleam of white and silver 
as each bird canted, swung round, and came 
down as silently as falling smoke. 
It was a flock of wigeon, probably the 
commonest wild-duck of our coasts. They 
had come straight in from the sea, on whose 
cold bosom they had slept during the light 
hours. 
Not a bird moved, after settling, for quite a 
minute. Then the leader—all gray-blue and 
chestnut, set off with a pure buff cap—dropped 
his head, and began to pluck at the fronds 
of the trailing wrack grass. All heads went 
down in unison. 
If you had been very near, indeed, you 
would have heard that the birds were not 
silent, as appeared; they were all talking in 
soft undertones. From time to time one 
would straighten up and flap its wings, just 
as farmyard ducks do. 
Now, this last was a bad habit. It could be 
heard quite far away, for sound travels wonder- 
fully over shallow water. 
On the water something floated. It might 
have been a strip of mud, only it moved. The 
rising tide slowly drifted it along. It was 
gray; it was squat. In the gloom it was 
scarcely noticeable. 
