FIRELIGHTING UNDER FIRE. 



A. S. DOANE. 



One evening late in March, the poach- 

 er's pardner stood in front of the camp, 

 watching the Sound. He was a tall man, 

 weighing 185 or 190 pounds, but so finely 

 proportioned that he looked slight when 

 contrasted with the poacher's shorter and 

 more bulky figure. The pardner wore long 

 rubber boots, an old pair of corduroys, 

 patched with shot bag, a red sweater and 

 an old shooting jacket. A tarpaulin hat 

 and 3 weeks' whiskers completed his 

 costume. His most striking characteristic 

 was a missing left eye. The remaining eye 

 was of a peculiarly chilly, steely blue. 

 "You got a eye like a fish," the poacher 

 had once told him. 



There was not a breath of wind, not a 

 ripple stirred the water. For once Sound 

 and sedge were both quiet. The sun had 

 gone and the last rays of twilight were fast 

 disappearing. 



"What you make of it?" said the poacher, 

 as he joined him. 



"I make nix," said his pardner. "Not a 

 thing in sight except those swan," he add- 

 ed, as he pointed to a long streak of white, 

 looking more like a vast bank of snow 

 than wild fowl. 



"Well/" said the poacher slowly, "we kin 

 make a night's work there." 



"But we got no big shot," objected his 

 pardner. 



"Don't need any," said the old man short- 

 ly. "I'll put you so clost you kin pick 

 'em up in your hands. Jest like ducks 

 when they see a light." 



"Too bad the ducks are gone," said the 

 younger. "We were making all kinds of 

 money." 



"Yes, 'tis too bad, but get the light and 

 the guns in the skiff. We got to go and 

 git 'em and be back here 'fore the moon 

 rises. We got 5 hours yet ; but they must 

 be all of 2 mile off." 



At a little island a mile away half a 

 dozen float houses were pulled up against 

 the marsh and half a dozen big sail boats 

 lay at anchor. Preparations of quite a 

 different kind were making for the night. 

 The occupants of the float houses were bat- 

 tery shooters. Two or 3 men were loading 

 Winchesters ; others were loading shot gun 

 shells with buck shot and slugs made from 

 net leads, which another man was chopping 

 up with a hatchet. The talk was loud 

 and indignant. Contrary to his usual cus- 

 tom the poacher had kept off the club 

 marshes the preceding 2 months, and had 

 been sneaking and firelighting the raft 

 ducks ; and so successfully that the ducks 

 had finally left that part of the Sound. 



Naturally the battery shooters were 

 wrathful ; their business had been broken 

 up. 



"Why doesn't he stay on the marsh?" 

 growled one. 



"It's all that cussed pardner," said an- 

 other. "He always did stick to the marsh 

 until he come up here." 



"Never mind," said a third, "either we 

 git them to-night or make 'em so sick they 

 won't do no more lighting." 



"That's the stuff," chimed in a man with 

 a rifle, "make 'em sick, and sick enough to 

 die, if we kin." 



About an hour later, with a powerful 

 reflecting lantern on the bow of their skiff, 

 the poacher and his pardner were shoving 

 down on the big raft of swans. It would 

 have been a wonderful sight for an artist. 

 The long, bright beam of light, gradually 

 widening as it left the boat, showed every- 

 thing with startling vividness. The brown 

 sedge on the edge of the marsh, the fright- 

 ened swans like great movable bundles of 

 fleece, now swimming away and now 

 bunching and approaching the fatal light ; 

 even the sandy bottom of the Sound, all 

 were distinct. The poacher guided the 

 boat with his long shoving oar. His pard- 

 ner was forward, gun in hand. They could 

 see the little beady eyes of the great birds. 

 Silently the boat glided still nearer. The 

 swans bunched again. 



"Now," said the poacher, dropping the 

 stick and picking up his gun. The 4 re- 

 ports followed one another in rapid succes- 

 sion. Half a dozen large bunches of white, 

 showing plainly on the water, and 4 or 5 

 cripples paddling for the marsh, told of 

 the execution they had wrought. The 

 pardner picked up the stick and pushed to 

 the nearest bunch and the poacher pulled 

 it in the boat. They passed to the next, 

 where 3 lay together, and got them. Then 

 came the reports of half a dozen guns and 

 rifles and the air- was full of slugs, bullets 

 and big shot. The poacher was overboard 

 in an instant, only his head showing above 

 water. His pardner reached for his gun. 

 The rifles still cracked and the bullets 

 whistled. 



"Drop it, man ! Put out the light and 

 lay overboard," said the poacher, quickly. 

 As his rjardner reached for the light, a 

 jagged piece of lead, fired from a shot gun 

 did his work for him. He was at once in 

 the water. 



"Now," said the poacher, "git them dead 

 birds inter the boat and pull her on the 

 marsh. Maybe they'll go away." 



Both men were perfectly cool ; they had 



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