When the smoke cleared away we looked for our cormorant, and there
he was, perched on the same bald point of rock, coolly preening his
black feathers. Then, as we ran up towards him, he stretched forth
his long neck, raised his wings, and sped away across the sea.
Either I had missed my shot, or the bird's tough skin had felt no
sensible touch. And where now were all our birds? Far out over the
gray sea they flew, secure from the range of our gun.
We waited long for their return, but only an occasional kittiwake
soared high above us, and some, bolder than the rest, presently
returned to their brooding places on the cliffs. We could not think
of firing while the gulls were on the wing, they swept past us so
quickly. We therefore scrambled over some abutting rocks into a
further bay, and still onward along the rough beach as far as the
stack of Hellia--a great steep rock standing out in the sea under
the frowning height of St. John's Head--and here we found as large
a number of birds as we had formerly seen.
We had arranged to take our shots turn about, and now it was
Robbie's turn. Having charged the gun, we stood quiet for a time,
patiently awaiting our chance. A carrion crow flew to a rock
between us and the water's edge. Robbie was ready. He took a
deliberate and steady aim and fired.
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