238 
FOREST AND STREAM 
The Killing at Beach Point (Third Morning) 
By Frank L. Bailey 
F IFTEEN days had elapsed since our last lit¬ 
tle sitting with the duck, and I was ex¬ 
pecting Mayland to give the word at any 
moment. In fact I had felt that it was coming, 
and coming soon. My mental-telepathetic pre¬ 
monition wasn’t far amiss, • for day before yes¬ 
terday, as I was sitting at my desk, lost in the 
beauties of a framed hunting scene before me, I 
heard a heavy step at my door, and “he-of-the- 
long-legs,” shoved a grinning face through the 
opening. “What say, Bailey,” he inquired, “try 
it to-morrow?” Well, friends, it didn’t require 
the aid of a big club to win my consent, and 
when I grinned, his facial gymnastics went mine 
one better. So it was agreed, and the cold, dark 
morning found me climbing into the motor-boat, 
gun, shell-box, oil-jacket and all. 
It was cool, calm and cloudy. And as the 
boat's nose poked its way out through the dark¬ 
ness, we felt that this was going to be “some” 
morning. As we moved down along Long Beach 
shore, duck after duck loomed up out of the 
gray mists to seaward, and it seemed that some 
of them were near enough to shoot at. Yet the 
law says “No,” and we “knowed.” 
While the boat “chug-chugged” merrily along, 
we stuffed shells into the magazines of our pump 
guns, and with every shell went a silent prayer 
that that shell might not speak' in vain. The 
gun god answers prayers, sometimes, and then 
again, there are times when he’s busy thinking- 
up hard luck for you, and he doesn’t hear. 
Slowly in the East, the sky paled, only to take 
on a faint tint, which flushed into a blush, and 
day had come. 
“Whang! bang!” Mayland grinned knowingly. 
“The boys are shooting pretty close to sunrise,” 
he said, pulling at his watch. I looked at mine. 
He was right. They were sort of pulling the 
sun up by the roots, so to speak. Another smoke¬ 
less bombardment; and our trigger-fingers began 
to itch like the hives. A moment more, and we 
had passed a man in a white dory. He looked 
like a giant sitting there alone. Somebody 
started another cannonade to the north of us, 
and Mayland compressed his lips and told me 
to stand by with the anchor. “We ain’t going 
to miss all of the fun” he said. I grasped the 
anchor; I think it must have been frozen. The 
engine was shut off and I threw the piece of 
galvanized iron over the side. In a thrice the 
boat was tugging gently at the bow-line, and I 
passed up the decoys, while my companion set 
them carefully on the water. It was calm, but 
the tide was running out good and plenty, and 
by the time we had dropped the last decoy anchor 
over, the canvas birds were pulling like mustard- 
plasters. This done, we ran the boat a few yards 
over, and put out the other set, the latter being 
old squaws. The strong current “horsed” the 
two front ones under, but the other six stood 
up like soldiers, then we took our position a 
proper distance away, and were ready. 
As the tide receded further and further, bring¬ 
ing the feeding grounds to view, the birds began 
coming in. The musical “Or-or-net” of a bunch 
of old squaws, close at hand, sent us reaching 
for our guns. “Still!” warned Mayland; and 
the guns tightened within our grasp. An instant 
later the black and white fellows—all males— 
were stretching for the decoys. The double 
“crack” of smokeless powder, a rattle of swiftly- 
working levers as fresh shells leaped into the 
barrels, then we opened up again. Two ducks 
lay quietly floating with the tide, a third was 
swimming in circles, his head under water; and 
as I looked, a fourth pitched headlong out of 
the rapidly vanishing flock, and struck the water 
with a splash. “Oh you!” cried Mayland, diving 
into his shell-box, then we slammed away at the 
cripple. He dove, but was up again in a mo¬ 
ment, and as I raised my gun to finish him, May- 
land grasped my arm. “Save your shell,” he said. 
"He’s all in.” Scarcely were the birds picked 
up, when a single white-winged coot investi¬ 
gated the decoys. Four times he circled us, 
neither time coming near enough. At every 
visit we gave him two guns, but he wasn’t satis¬ 
fied until we reached him with a stiff one, then 
he headed up the channel, flying low and wabbly. 
A gray wedge of geese crossed above us, high 
over head, and flock after flock of black ducks 
flew seaward, passing over us, high in the air. 
Sheldrakes and whistlers pursued their rapid 
flight into the rose-tinted East, disappearing in 
a veil of vari-colored fleecy clouds. 
Four white-winged coots were coming straight 
at us. We drew the hammers of our guns, and 
crouched low. “Bang!” the leader doubled up 
before Mayland’s gun. “B-bang!—bang!” an¬ 
other crumpled, and yet another. I pulled again 
on the pair of white-barred wings, but the bird 
was safely out of reach. Mayland knocked over 
the cripples, and we were three more to the good. 
Suddenly from somewhere a loner dropped into 
the decoys; he stayed. 
Mayland tore the cover from a new box of 
“U. M. C.’s” and I filled and lighted my pipe. 
Over under the Duxbury shore they were bang¬ 
ing away hot and heavy. Their light-draught 
boats permitting them to anchor on the feeding 
grounds, where they took their pick of the choice 
shots. 
We sighted a white-winged rounding the end 
of Beach Point. Straight on he came until about 
one hundred yards, then he kept off and circled 
us. The man in the white dory began whistling 
to pull the bird over his way, so Mayland and I 
wet up our whistles a little, and soon the bird 
turned and made for us. Another moment and 
he was scaling for the decoys. Just before reach¬ 
ing them, he wheeled again, and Mayland blazed 
away. The coot went down, struck the water 
with a “buff,” rebounded into the air, and took 
wing, beautifully. Again Mayland’s gun emptied 
its charge of 4s, and the bird collapsed. There 
was no getting up this time; he had received the 
heft of the charge. Close upon this came five 
male old squaws, the cold winter sun beautifully 
lighting up their black and white markings. On 
came the long-tailed fellows, pursuing their 
characteristic, slightly up-tilted flight, until they 
hovered over the decoys, then we smashed into 
them. Scarcely had the guns recoiled from their 
measure of smokeless grains, ere we were pump¬ 
ing in the shot as fast as we could rattle the lev¬ 
ers. “Bang !clacherty-clack-bang!” The ducks 
yanked, jumped sideways and tumbled. Three 
were bobbing quietly on the water, one was 
vainly trying to get under, and the other had 
vanished, while we stood with guns ready, await¬ 
ing his appearance. He came up, and was down 
again in a flash. He worked us three times in 
this manner, then we lost him. Five minutes 
later an old squaw alighted among the decoys. 
Mayland happened to see her swimming there; 
neither of us saw her alight. He threw up his 
gun quickly and fired. She went under and 
came up flying. She must have spread her wings 
when she left bottom, and she was fairly “hiss¬ 
ing” the air—you know they can go some, when 
they get started. We both took a chance, and al¬ 
though the shot seemed to bury her, yet she es¬ 
caped. Mayland said that “every shot must have 
gone where she wasn’t.” 
A little sea-dove (Dovekie), called ice-birds 
by the fishermen, swam by us, looking as im¬ 
portant as a wild goose. Many of these little 
black and white fellows get blown inshore during 
heavy storms. They breed in the Arctic regions, 
and as a usual thing, stick pretty close to mid¬ 
ocean. 
We watched the antics of several hell-divers, 
or “water-witches” as they are sometimes called. 
They would partly rise from the surface and 
flutter along, sending the spray in all directions. 
Finally they would clear themselves of the water, 
entirely, fly a short distance, then tumble in with 
a splash, apparently too heavy to go farther. 
And as I watched, I thought how appropriate 
the apellation—-“water-witch,” for they rose, 
seemingly from nowhere, skimmed along with a 
trailing white furrow of spray, then disappeared 
again. Their other local name, “hell-diver,” you 
will also appreciate when you attempt to shoot 
one, especially if he happens to see you first. A 
loon emitted a maniacal “Hoo-hoo-hoo!” over at 
our right, then turned his head sharply from side 
to side as though to note the effect of his chal- 
enge. 
The whistle of coots warned us to be on the 
lookout, and turning our heads in their direc¬ 
tion, saw three of the trim, gray birds. And as 
we watched their flight, they came toward us, 
Mayland doubling up the first two, while I 
stopped the other. Down he came with a splash 
and disappeared. He appeared a moment later 
and I shot him. 
There was one thing that was brought forci¬ 
bly to my attention: I noticed the cold more 
than when I was a boy. In those days I would 
lay, morning after morning, against a cake of 
salt water ice, with the cold winter wind com¬ 
ing hard from the west, waiting for sheldrakes. 
After you have been in an office heated by steam 
for a few years, you sort of lose your grip. 
“Down!” breathed Mayland, swinging his gun 
into position. There were three old squaws 
coming on the right, and two coots on the left. 
I laid for the former, while my companion took 
the others. A moment more and we opened up 
with a sharp “crack” of Ballistite. Four birds 
in all, and one cripple, lost. Higher rose the tide, 
until the flight dropped off to nothing, but the 
“killing” had been good, and we were satisfied. 
Note.—Here’s Tommy Diman’s formula for 
cooking coots: “Stew the birds thoroughly,, 
along with a couple of bricks. Throw away the 
birds, and eat the bricks.” I agree with Tommy. 
Author.] 
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in customers you might supply with a portion 
of everything you have to sell. 
