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Dark came on us again, chill and windy, and the salt spray cutting at us like a whiplash. Boo-m-m! Big Jones stood up in the stern-sheets, swaying unsteadily. "D'ye hear anything there? . . . Like a gun?" A gun? Gun? . . . Nothing new! . . . We had been hearing guns, seeing sails in our minds all the day! All day . . . guns . . . and sail! Boom-m-m-m! "Gun! Oh God . . . a gun!
The hills here are partly wooded and in the valleys nestle lakes literally black with wild-fowl bittern that rise heavy-winged and furry with a boo-m-m; grey geese holding political caucus with raucous screeching of the honking ganders; black duck and mallard and teal; inland gulls white as snow and fearless of hunters; little match-legged phalaropes fishing gnats from the wet sand.
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