Master Simon sat and smoked, and made his own bed, and accomplished
some execrable cookery in the intervals of oiling his duck-gun.
Even duck-shooting becomes a weariness when a man has to manage gun
and punt single-handed. One afternoon he abandoned the sport in an
exceedingly bad temper, and pulled up to the jaws of Cuckoo Valley.
Here he landed, and after an hour's trudge in the marshy bottoms had
the luck to knock over two couple of woodcock.

He rowed back with his spoil, and was making fast to the ferry steps,
when a thought struck him. He shipped the paddles again, and pulled
down to Ponteglos. The short day was closing, and already a young
moon glimmered on the floods.


The woodcock were cooked to a turn; juicier birds never reclined on
toast. The waitress removed the cloth and returned with a kettle;
retired and returned again with a short-necked bottle, a glass and
spoon, sugar, a nutmeg, and a lemon; retired with a twinkle in her
eye.

"To fortify you!" said Mistress Prudence, rubbing a lump of sugar
gently on the lemon-rind.

"The night air," Master Simon murmured.

"--Against the damp house you're going back to," the lady corrected.

"You talk without giving it a trial."