firm, determined mouth, fully exposed by a clean-shaven upper lip; a skin tanned and wrinkled by many a keen wind and salt-laden blizzard—we have the picture of a man who had conquered nature's wild forces, had stood and withstood the bitter rigours of winter which had slain many of his weaker fellows.
When we entered the cosy parlour and sat down with the family to a sumptuous repast, we saw our host in his true character, a yeoman farmer of the real Cheshire type. Courteous, kindly, with that generous nature and open-handed hospitality that marks the true gentleman, his very independence made one feel at ease. With pride he talked of the excitements of the chase; story after story, racily told, flowed from his lips; at times he spoke with scorn of ignorant bird hunters who could not make a bag. Often he was asked to teach the art of wild-fowling, but, though always ready to give a hint to anyone who was really trying, even at the expense of a coveted shot, he invariably refused to give the benefit of his long experience to those who aimed at saving themselves the drudgery of learning. In his narratives he mingled the Cheshire vernacular with Lincolnshire long-shore names of birds, for his father was a Lincolnshire man. "Billy th' Duck," as the Wirral men nicknamed his father, came with his broad, undecked punt and big gun from the eastern seaboard to find virgin soil, or rather virgin mud and sand, in the Dee estuary; there were no professional wild-fowlers, no students of the art, when he first arrived in Cheshire.
Donning his sealskin coat, cap, and long boots, Billy launched his punt, loaded his old muzzle-loader, and paddled down the gutters to look for fowl. Two Neston men, fishing in one of the channels, saw through the mist a strange object approaching. "Look ye, a wha-al," cried one; "see its flappers going!" They would have had a
