The ledges of the cliffs were crowded with gulls, whose
plumage was as snowy as the very foam that the high waves scattered
over their ranks. In a little cove at the extremity of the bay were
scores of kittiwakes, chattering over some dead fish thrown up by
the sea.
Here was a rare hunting ground for two eager young sportsmen! Close
to us a couple of turnstones, smart little birds in brown, with
bright-red legs and beaks, were busy on a heap of kelp. I levelled
my gun at them, and was about to fire, when Robbie stayed my hand
and pointed to a large cormorant sheltered in a deep niche of the
cliff and looking darker even than the dark rock over its head. I
altered the direction of my aim, keeping well out of the bird's
sight, with my back against a wall of granite.
It was well for me that I did so, for without this support in the
rear I should surely have fallen. When I drew the trigger I
received a fearful blow in the chest from the butt of the gun and a
thump on the back from the rock. The report of the gun sounded loud
through the chasms, and the echo was repeated along the line of the
cliffs and far over among the glens, as though a whole volley of
musketry had been fired. Birds flew about in all directions,
uttering wild cries of warning to each other. The air was crowded
with flying gulls.
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