One man one skiff was the order. We would set out at 4.30, after tea, and return at 8. The danger was to forget the duck in the still beauty of the evening. As you watched the reddening west over the reeds, the birds coming across the ruddy ground would recall you to business. Shooting was easy, so we got a lot. The place was untrammelled. Except for an occasional General who came up for a day's sport (the Staff had got to know the Mahsamah Lagoon), there was little shooting done, and the water had not yet become a scare-area. The Sheikh did a little on his own account. The underlings he provided knew their work, and would ejaculate and advise in Arabic: _Talihena! Bakaskeen kebir!_ (snipe--big one!)--in a hoarse, excited whisper, as the birds rose on the breeze. _Aywah_, you mutter, making ready. They would strip and go into the reeds waist-deep for birds fallen there. _Quaiys kiteer!_ (fine), greeted a hit; and if you missed, a consolatory _Malish!_ (never mind), _Bukrah_ (perhaps to-morrow), uttered with a gentle ironical intonation. Rowing back there was always baksheesh in cigarettes or cartridges--or both; and some, with their skins wet and muddied from wading, deserved it. Some did not. The natives fished the lagoon systematically with nets, at night. You encountered them as you pursued duck. They regularly exported crates of fish to Cairo and Zagazig. When the nets were spread they would "beat-up" the fish with tomtoms in the boats. You might hear their solitary cries and their rhythmic tattoo on the water all night. They fished with lines, too--to order. If you gave them an order at the camp for a dozen they would have them back in half an hour, wriggling on a string. They were proud of their craft, and would throw you a triumphant glance, as who should say, "Let's see you do that!" The Arab village lay on the banks of the canal. Comely villagers they were, with well-featured women and men with a continent, contented air, living by fishing or growing of crops. The camera they funked, and that distinguished them from the raucous, dissolute denizens of Cairo, who delight to ape attitudes for the photographer. They showed all the best qualities of the fellaheen. There was no obsequiousness in the men, as in the capital. There is no crowd more cowardly and villainous than the Cairene mob. But the men at Mahsamah, when the sojourning Australians attempted to commandeer their canal-ferry, pushed them incontinently into the stream. This was conduct unprecedented in the Egyptian. A town-and-gown fight ensued. Skulls were cracked, and the Australians had by no means the better of it. There was a dash of the old fighting Bedouin blood in these fellows. There was to be no bullying here; and there was none.