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Mostly Whistlers 
Depicting a Typical Early-Winter Day in the Blind 
HE wind was blowing a gale. It 
T had been plugging right along 
from the Northeast for two 
days and still showed no signs of a 
lay-off. There’s something about these 
early winter gales that gets into your 
bones; especially into your trigger- 
finger, which in turn develops an awful 
itch and you begin to wonder if the 
ducks are flying. You know darn well 
they are flying, but you always begin 
to wonder, first. Then you sort of 
lose interest in your business, your 
family and in fact, everything. It’s 
no use, you might just as well go and 
get it out of your system; let 
business and the family go 
hang, it’s the only way. 
“Collie” and the “P. M.” felt 
the same way as I did, only 
the “P. M.’s” salary went on 
just the same whether he was 
on the job or not, while “Collie” 
and I had to work for a living. 
Every fresh flaw that rattled 
my office window brought me 
up with a start. I was surely 
getting over-tired, my nerves 
needed a rest, an afternoon at 
Bradford’s gunning stand was 
probably just what I needed. 
I reached for the telephone but 
“Collie’ was one jump ahead. The 
*phone rang in my hands: “Can you 
get away this afternoon?” he asked. 
I could feel the thrill of excitement in 
his voice. “You know blamed well I 
ought not to,” afraid all the time he 
would call it off (I had already been 
out three days the week before), “but 
I suppose if YOU really want to go— 
why—-yes, I’ll close the office early and 
you meet me with the car at the house 
at 12.30, I guess I can make it.” 
E was on time to a second. He 
stepped on the gas and I grabbed 
a dangling strap for safety. For a 
fast driver “Collie” is the most care- 
ful one it has ever been my misfor- 
tune to sit beside. 
Bradford’s Stand, squatting low in 
Page 717 
By FRANK LINWOOD BAILEY 
its drab surroundings of sedge and 
sand, is situated about a third of the 
way down Plymouth Beach. On a 
half to a two-thirds tide a beautiful 
point makes out to the right, thus 
forming a perfect shelter for ducks 
when the wind is anywhere from 
Northeast to West. 
The “P. M.” had been loafing here 
for the last few days and we knew 
he’d never go home on a day like this, 
and so we found him. He sat humped 
up in the dug-out, sucking away on a 
villainous briar pipe—I wonder that 
he was conscious, An assortment of 
TIDIVIUOUUUU000 0000 GU00UTUCTUTRTSUAUUIOOTE EU UTA PTUT 
To right and left, high in the air 
The ducks are flying everywhere— 
Goose and gander halt and wheel— 
Pintail, mallard, broadbill, teal; 
Across the sea of dun-gray sedge 
The fowl pursue their flying wedge. 
The Author. 
TUIAOVUITUVUUTU UU AUUUTUUULGU TUT 
black ducks, sheldrakes and whistlers 
lay at his feet while “Skip,” his Irish 
water spaniel, stretched dosing in a 
nearby corner on the sand. ‘Collie” 
and I sat down weakly—it had been 
a tough walk and the Prince Albert 
fumes were knockouts. We _ unlim- 
bered our guns: “Anything doing?” I 
asked casually. “Not much,” he an- 
swered. “Been a few along, mostly 
fowl, no ducks to speak of.” “Collie” 
and I winked behind his back. “Pretty 
poor day,’ ventured “Collie,” eyeing 
the pile of dead. “Well,” he admitted 
reluctantly, “there was a few this 
morning early, be some more in later, 
middle the afternoon,’ then he _ sub- 
sided. 
I looked through the portholes at 
the battery, There was certainly a 
variety of decoys. To the right sat 
four live duck coyers. Then a little 
to the left floated eight of the pret- 
tiest whistler blocks I had ever seen, 
they were dead ringers for the real 
thing. 
A’ the left of these reposed six shel- 
drake facsimiles somewhat shy on 
paint, while next to them came three 
more live duck decoys, and last of all— 
“What’s that way over to port?” I 
asked. “You mean my coot tolers?” 
“Oh, is that it?” I inquired while 
“Collie” and I winked again. I’m glad 
he named them, I couldn’t. One 
of them was minus a head (if 
it ever had one), another’s 
head pointed southwest while 
his tail pointed the same way, 
sort of keeping an eye out to 
leeward, while the third and 
last block had his head point- 
ing straight up in the air; 
watching for high-flyers, prob- 
ably. “Do they ever draw?” I 
asked. “Draw,” said he, “what 
do you mean?” . “Why, draw 
any birds in?” “Sure,” he re- 
plied. “Why, anybody knows 
a coot will come to a lobster 
buoy.” “Well, why not use lob- 
ster buoys instead of those things?” 
put in “Collie.” The answer never 
came, but five whistlers did. “Collie” 
and I emptied our guns without drop- 
ping a bird, we were taken unawares. 
The “P. M.” looked at us pityingly, but 
said nothing; that look said a bookful. 
WO sheldrakes tore across. the 
blocks and the “P. M.” doubled 
them up like jack-knives and the dog 
retrieved them. Of course, that made 
“Collie” and I feel kind of low down, 
after the fluke we had pulled off a few 
moments before. 
The musical quiver of whistlers 
sounded faintly, “Collie” and I vowed 
to get back some of our lost reputa- 
tion if these fellows made us an offer. 
(Continued on page 746) 
