Such is the inability exhibited by many sportsmen (not being wildfowlers) to conceal their persons--or even to recognise the virtue of concealment--that, for such, the holes are apt to be made too big, and the geese swerve off at sight of those gaping pits. This indeed is a form of sport that none save wildfowlers need essay--others merely succeed in thwarting the whole enterprise. However carefully prepared and skilfully occupied, these holes (dug in naked sand) must obviously be visible enough to the keen sight of incoming greylags. One such hole (when backed up by well-placed decoys) the geese may almost ignore; two they distrust; while three inspire something approaching panic. Consequently a single craftsman who knows his business and bides his time will shoot, under the most favourable circumstances, at almost every successive band of geese that means alighting. Two guns, in _full sympathy_ with each other, may effectually combine by occupying holes dug at some fifty yards apart and with a single set of decoys set midway between for mutual use. Thus there can be secured fair, frequent, and almost simultaneous shots. It is essential to bear in mind the fact that the geese have come with the intention (unless prematurely alarmed) of _alighting_. Hence, as they often circle two or three times around before finally deciding, a judicious refusal of all uncertain chances has a concrete reward when, a few seconds later, the pack sweep overhead at half gunshot. The first element of success lies in concealment; the second in ever allowing the geese to come in to such close quarters as renders the shot a certainty. Greylag geese are, of course, huge birds, very strong, and impenetrable as ironclads. But to tyros (and many others) in the early light they are apt to appear much larger, and consequently much nearer, than is actually the case. All this has, the night before, been impressed upon our friend, the tyro, in solemn, even tragic tones. The urgency of the thing seems to have been graven deep on the very tissues of his brain, and he promises with earnest humility to bear the lesson in mind when the vital moment shall arrive; to deny himself all but point-blank shots well within thirty yards, whereby he will not only himself assist to swell the score, but enable his companion to do likewise. Words fail to describe that companion's frame of mind at the dawn, when, despite over-night exhortations and assurances, he sees to his horror pack after pack of incoming geese (some of which he has himself let pass within forty yards) "blazed at" at mad and reckless ranges by that wretched scarecrow who never ruffles a feather and afterwards tries to excuse his failure by enlarging on "the extreme height the geese came in at!"