Paullo is a good shot--with a knife and fork--and can look on at
others who are doing hard work, with more nerve and complacency than
any man who visits the Sound. He had been persuaded to go to a certain
pond where ducks were abundant and easy to shoot. This was good; he
put his decoys out and waited. A bird was coming down--it went among
the stool. It was a beautiful specimen of the feathered tribe, with a
bill like a crow. In some places it is known as a crow duck, but the
proper local name here is "blue-peter." Blue-peter seemed to have no
fear, but sported around and among the dummies, and tossed the bright
drops of water from its shining plumage. With the true feelings of a
sportsman, Paullo wanted the bird to have a fair chance, and so tossed
bunches of marsh grass at it--it would not fly. Picking up his gun he
fired, wounding several decoys.

[Illustration: BATTLE WITH BLUE-PETER.]

The battle raged all that day and the next, blue-peter diving at the
flash of the gun, and defiantly coming up and wailing for it to be
reloaded.

[Illustration: STRUCK IT WITH A CLUB.]

[Illustration: THE CONQUEROR.]

On the morning of the third day, our Nimrod was late. When he arrived,
the duck was there patiently waiting to renew the fight, and was
busily engaged picking the shot from the bottom of the pond, tossing
it up and catching it in its bill as it came down. With such a gunner
and such game, this might last a week. Strategy was resorted to, and
when blue-peter went under at the flash, our hero waded out and struck