imself, was seated upon a piece of
wreck. In appearance he was a very fine man, big-shouldered and broad
limbed, and his age might have been thirty-five or a little more. Of his
frame, however, what between the mist and the unpleasantly damp seaweed
with which he was wreathed, not much was to be seen. But such light as
there was fell upon his face as he peered eagerly over and round the
rock, and glinted down the barrels of the double ten-bore gun which he
held across his knee. It was a striking countenance, with its brownish
eyes, dark peaked beard and strong features, very powerful and very
able. And yet there was a certain softness in the face, which hovered
round the region of the mouth like light at the edge of a dark cloud,
hinting at gentle sunshine. But little of this was visible now. Geoffrey
Bingham, barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple, M.A., was engaged with
a very serious occupation. He was trying to shoot curlew as they passed
over his hiding-place on their way to the mud banks where they feed
further along the coast.

Now if there is a thing in the world which calls for the exercise of
man's every faculty it is curlew shooting in a mist. Perhaps he may
wait for an hour or even two hours and see nothing, not even an
oyster-catcher. Then at last from miles away comes the faint wild call
of curlew on the wing. He strains his eyes, the call comes nearer, but
nothing can he see. At last, seventy yards or more to the right, he
catches sight of the flicker of beating wings, and, like a flash, they
are gone. Again a call--the curlew are flighting. He looks and looks, in
his excitement struggling to his feet and raising his head incautiously
far above the sheltering rock. There they come, a great flock of
thirty or more, bearing straight down on him, a hundred yards
off--eighty--sixty--now. Up goes the gun, but alas and alas! they catch
a glimpse of the light glinting on the barrels, and perhaps of the head
behind them, and in another second they have broken and scattered this
way and that way, twisting off like a wisp of gigantic snipe, to vanish
with melancholy cries into the depth of mist.

This is bad, but the ardent sportsman sits down with a groan and waits,
listening to the soft lap of the tide. And then at last virtue is
rewarded. 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 thu