passion for wild-fowling and become sheep-farmer, his heart was still in the old days; he loved to boast of his big shots, his adventures amongst the birds. By right of knowledge he made the marshes his, later they became his by legal tenure; his Scottish flocks grazed where he formerly punted.
How can we describe the man? He was no miserable shore shooter who tramped along the tide line, fearful of losing his way on the wastes, snapping his 12-bore at any passing gull, balked by the first deep gutter. No; in his younger days he was a true wild-fowler, who loved the roar of the punt-gun that hurled a pound and a half of lead into the packed grey geese or barnacles, laying low ten, fifteen, or twenty at a shot. Once, he told us, thirty-five were gathered—a famous number, be reckoned. When the grey dawn came—for he often shot at night—he would visit the spot where he fired to gather the slain and cripples; he knew where he had been in the darkness; the wastes were mapped in his brain. What need for daylight when he could find his way in the "wild roads" or amongst the "lums" and "gorings"? He was acquainted with every channel, every intricate gutter and current; the banks and flats were as easy to him as the streets and houses to the town dweller. Why, he said, should he waste time with the "cripple-killer," or tramp the dangerous mud at night to pick up fallen birds, when he might get another shot at fowl elsewhere on the marsh?
Somewhat bent, more perhaps through much crouching in the old punt than the result of years, the old fowler was a fine, broad-shouldered, well-built man. There was penetrating keenness in his eyes, which twinkled with humour beneath heavy eyebrows, though, like all men of crepuscular habits, he had a half-frown. This was not the frown of ill-humour, but a set expression of determination, indicative of the strong character of the owner. A
