Now Dave, the duck-decoy-man of the fens, knew nothing about lines of fracture or bulbs of percussion as taught by mineralogists, but he knew exactly where to hit that piece of flint so as to cause a nice sharp-edged flake to fly off, and he knew how and where to hit that flake so as to chip it into a neat oblong, ready for his gun, those present being ignorant of the fact that they were watching workmanship such as was in vogue among the men who lived and hunted in England in the far-distant ages of which we have no history but what they have left us in these works. Dave Gittan chipped away at the flint just as the ancient hunters toiled to make the arrow-heads with which they shot the animals which supplied them with food and clothing, the flint-knives with which they skinned and cut up the beasts, and the round sharp-edged scrapers with which they removed the fat and adhering flesh as they dressed and tanned the skins to make them fit to wear.
Dave chipped one gun-flint very accurately, failed to make a second, but was triumphant with the third attempt, and fitting it exactly in the lock of his piece with a piece of leather at top and bottom, he loaded the gun with a great deal of ceremony, measuring the powder with a tiny cup which fitted over the top of his powder-horn, and his shot with the same vessel, so many times filled.
These rammed down in place with some rough paper on the top, and the ramrod measured to see whether it stood out the right distance from the barrel, the pan was primed and closed, and the gun carefully laid ready for use.
“There,” cried Dave in an ill-used tone, “I don’t know why I’m tekkin’ all this trouble for such a pair o’ young shacks as you; but come along.”
“It’s because he likes us, Dick,” said Tom merrily.
“Nay, that I don’t,” cried Dave. “I hate the lot of you. Not one of you’ll be satisfied till you’ve spoiled all my fen-land, and made it a place where nivver a bird will come.”
“Why, I wouldn’t have it touched if I could help it—St! Dave, what bird’s that?” said Dick.
“Curlew,” replied Dave in a low voice, whose tones were imitated by the lads as the boat was softly punted along. “See them, boys!”
He nodded in the direction they were going, towards where a number of birds were flying about over some patches of land which stood just over the level of the water. Now they looked dark against the sky, now they displayed feathers of the purest white, for their flight with their blunted wings was a clumsy flapping very different to the quiver and skim of a couple of wild ducks which came by directly after and dropped into the water a quarter of a mile ahead.
“You come and see me next spring, my lads, and I’ll show you where there’s more pie-wipes’ eggs than ever you found before in your lives.”