The breath of us is whistling through our nostrils, like the muffled exhaust of a gasoline engine, and our hearts are thumping two-steps on our ribs from the exertion, when we reach the end of the rock-bestrewn point which, like a long index finger, is thrust out into the bosom of the lake. The wind, still dead north, and laden with tiny drops of moisture, like spray from a giant atomizer, buffets us steadily; but thereof we are sublimely unconscious. For at last we are there, there; precisely where we were yesterday--no, a year ago--and the light is strong enough now, so that when our gun-barrels stand out against the sky, we can see the sights, and-- Down! Down, behind the nearest stunted willow tree; behind anything--quick!--for they're coming: a great dim wedge, with the apex toward us, coming swiftly on wings that propel two miles to the minute, when backed by a wind that makes a mile in one. Coming--no; arrived. Fair overhead are the white of breasts, of plump bodies flashing through the mist, the swishing hiss of many wings cutting the air, the rhythmic _pat_, _pat_--"_Bang!_ _Bang!_" Was it Sandford's gun, or was it mine? Who knows? The reports were simultaneous. And then--_splash!_ and a second later,--_splash!_ as two dots leave the hurtling wedge and, with folded wings, pitch at an angle, following their own momentum, against the dull brown surface of the rippling water. Through the intervening branches and dead sunflower stalks, I look at Sandford--to find that Sandford is looking at me. "Good work, old man!" I say, and notice that my voice is a little higher than normal. "Good work, yourself,"--generously. "I missed clean, both barrels. Do better next time, though, perhaps.... _Down!_ Mark north! Take the leader, you." From out the mist, dead ahead, just skimming the surface of the water, and coming straight at us, like a mathematically arranged triangle of cannon balls, taking definite form and magnitude oh, so swiftly, unbelievably swift; coming--yes--directly overhead, as before, the pulsing, echoing din in our ears. "_Ready!_" Again the four reports that sounded as two; and they are past; no longer a regular formation, but scattered erratically by the alarm, individual vanishing and dissolving dots, speedily swallowed up by the gray of the mist. But this time there was no echoing splash, as a hurtling body struck the water, nor tense spoken word of congratulation following--nothing. For ten seconds, which is long under the circumstances, not a word is spoken; only the metallic click of opened locks, as they spring home, breaks the steady purr of the wind; then: "Safe from me when they come like that," admits Sandford, "unless I have a ten-foot pole, and they happen to run into it." "And from me," I echo. "Lord, how they come! They just simply materialize before your eyes, like an impression by flash-light; and then--vanish." "Yes." "Seems as though they'd take fire, like meteorites, from the friction."