then in companies and cohorts, until the sky was
powdered with them. Now and then a dark line of ducks streamed over me,
high up, in direct, steady flight, but the sound of their wings was
swallowed up by the wind. I did not even try to shoot; I was trying to
find myself in an elemental world that seemed bigger and more powerful
than I had ever conceived it.

Gradually I realized that I was cold. The wind seemed suddenly to have
become aware of me. It roared down upon me, it shook me, worried me, let
me go, and pounced upon me again in the sport of power. I said to
myself, "I cannot resist, I will give myself up to it absolutely," I
stopped feeling cold. I was no more than a ship's timber lying on the
shore--with just a centre, a point of consciousness somewhere inside, to
be aware of the difference between the elements and the something I knew
was myself.

But at last I moved. It was fatal. A wave of cold started, pricking
somewhere in my head, and undulated sinuously through me, down to my
feet. More waves followed; they careered through me. I considered them
with interest. Then they settled into aches at all the extremities. All
at once it ceased to be interesting, and became a personal
grievance--against the wind? the ducks? No-- Jonathan! Of course it was
Jonathan's fault. Why didn't he come? I gazed into the twilight where
he had disappeared. I couldn't go and hunt for him, because I should
certainly get lost or fall into a ditch. Ah! What was that? The long red
flash of a gun!--another!--then the double report! Well, of course, if
he were shooting, I would suspend judgment a reasonable time.

But it seemed quite an unreasonable time before I felt the impact of his
tread on the springy marsh floor. I rose stiffly, feeling cross.

"Did you think I was never coming?"

"I can't think. My brains are stiff."

"I was delayed. I dropped one in the ditch. He was only wounded. I
couldn't leave him."

"Then you got some?"

"Feel!"

I felt his game pockets. "One, two--oh, three! I didn't hear you shoot
except twice. Well"--I was stamping and flinging my arms around myself
in the endeavor to thaw out--"I think they're very well off: they're
bound for a warm oven."

"Cold? Thunder! I ought to have left you the bottle. Here!"

I took it and gulped, protesting: "Detestable stuff! Wait, I'll take
some more."

"This from you! You _must_ be cold! Come on! Run! Look out for the
little ditches! Jump where I do."

We