by sounds; but though there are hundreds of the fowl all round about, it is still so grey that you are not able to see them. Presently they spring up in every direction, a shiver and a flash,—gone instantly.

Then a faint bark is heard; the dog looks up for one instant, but drops his head again. Nearer comes the hoarse bark-like call. Finny turns to Den, and says, "One o' them Bargander ducks callin' to her mate." He is right, as usual; it is a female sheldrake that has just risen from the mussel - scalps, calling for her mate that has probably been shot, not far away.

That object like a small haystack, half a mile distant, is the looker's cottage; they are now nearing the spit. Here Den's companion takes the lead, for they are in a most intricate network of land and water. As the gullies are low, the tide coming up finds its way here before the ooze is covered.

Presently Fin motions to the dog, and points in front. Rover takes the lead now: in less than ten minutes they are on firm ground, close to the spit.

Fin turns to Den and places a finger on his lips. Not a sound now, not a footfall, if they can avoid it.

From the opposite side of the spit a mob of curlews spring up, shrieking frantically as they shoot overhead and dash down the creek. If Den and his companion had but known the cause of the flight, it would have been better for them; but a shoreshooter's life is full of chance, and only too often the chances are against him.

Rover sniffs, and Finny points to something in a hollow half hid by the sea-blite. It is the looker's punt, with the dry bents in its bottom. Rover steps in, takes the middle, Finny the bow, Den the stern, and they crouch.

Presently Fin touches Den's hand with a bottle. One good draught, and Den feels the blood coursing freely in his veins. All things taken into consideration, they are in clover. The moon shines right on them and on the coming tide. But where are the geese?

Not far off: Den and Fin can hear them gabble. Thousands of ox-birds or dunlins rush past over the ooze. Curlews pitch close to the punt, feeding busily; you can see them before they settle. After they settle they are, to all intents and purposes, invisible. Fowl at night look grey, the same colour

as the slub.

You can only fire in the direction you think they should be from the sound of their feeding, and then send your dog. But dunlins are not the game to-night.

The geese are here; Finny and Den can see them coming up, a waving cloud. They are lowering, have pitched, and begin feeding. As the water floats them, they will come nearer and nearer. Even now can be discerned some grey spots just off the spit; they will be in sight directly. Now they show in the full light, as they swim and turn down their necks to reach the grass, which is covered with them. Their hind parts show white as they guzzle away, all unconscious of the fowlers' nearness to them.

The coverings are taken off the locks, for the guns had been carefully loaded with swan - shot before starting. Rover pokes his nose just over the punt's

Now for it! The guns

side, ready to dash away. just touch the shoulder, when, from the other side of the spit, from the little bay hidden from their sight, comes the report of four duck-guns, one after the other. Two had been fired at the geese as they floated up, and two as they rose in dire confusion.

They heard them fall, thud, thud, and then a skiff was put out.

It was enough, - more than enough: Den and Finny crept off, after looking at each other, without a word. When they were about two miles on their homeward way Fin stopped, looked earnestly at Den, drew the bottle from his pocket, took a long pull, and handed it to him, saying, “Finish it."

Then his tongue was freely loosened. "Of all the rum starts that ever I cum across since I first paddled about, this licks all." Den quite agreed with him. It was by no means pleasant to be forestalled.

All fowlers know that the best-laid plans are apt to fail. When they are told of some one who never goes home empty-handed, they say, "He uses silver shot."

CHAPTER XIX.

HOW THE CHOLERA CAME TO MARSHTON.

ONE summer Marshton had a worse foe to contend

against than even fever and ague. The fishing community to which most of Den's mother's people belonged occupied the lower part of the village, close to the water's edge. Their cottages were solidly built, roomy, and comfortable, but the living-rooms of most of these were below the level of the pavement; you had to go down three or four steps to reach the doors. No doubt they had been built in this way to shield the houses and their inhabitants, in some measure, from the fierce blasts that blew directly off the water. At one time the tide never reached them, as it had a vast extent of uninhabited flat to flow over, there being only a