First of all two wild duck come over, cleaving the air like
arrows. The mallard is missed, but the left barrel reaches the duck,
and down it comes with a full and satisfying thud. Hardly have the
cartridges been replaced when the wild cry of the curlew is once more
heard--quite close this time. There they are, looming large against the
fog. Bang! down goes the first and lies flapping among the rocks. Like
a flash the second is away to the left. Bang! after him, and caught
him too! Hark to the splash as he falls into the deep water fifty yards
away. And then the mist closes in so densely that shooting is done with
for the day. Well, that right and left has been worth three hours' wait
in the wet seaweed and the violent cold that may follow--that is, to any
man who has a soul for true sport.
Just such an experience as this had befallen Geoffrey Bingham. He had
bagged his wild duck and his brace of curlew--that is, he had bagged one
of them, for the other was floating in the sea--when a sudden increase
in the density of the mist put a stop to further operations. He shook
the wet seaweed off his rough clothes, and, having lit a short briar
pipe, set to work to hunt for the duck and the first curfew.
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