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. He found
them easily enough, and then, walking to the edge of the rocks, up the
sides of which the tide was gradually creeping, peered into the mist to
see if he could find the other. Presently the fog lifted a little, and
he discovered the bird floating on the oily water about fifty yards
away. A little to the left the rocks ran out in a peak, and he knew
from experience that the tide setting towards the shore would carry the
curlew past this peak. So he went to its extremity, sat down upon a
big stone and waited. All this while the tide was rising fast, though,
intent as he was upon bringing the curlew to bag, he did not pay much
heed to it, forgetting that it was cutting him off from the land. At
last, after more than half-an-hour of waiting, he caught sight of the
curlew again, but, as bad luck would have it, it was still twenty yards
or more from him and in deep water. He was determined, however, to get