It was well for me that I did so, for without this support in the rear I should surely have fallen.  When I drew the trigger I received a fearful blow in the chest from the butt of the gun and a thump on the back from the rock.  The report of the gun sounded loud through the chasms, and the echo was repeated along the line of the cliffs and far over among the glens, as though a whole volley of musketry had been fired.  Birds flew about in all directions, uttering wild cries of warning to each other.  The air was crowded with flying gulls.

When the smoke cleared away we looked for our cormorant, and there he was, perched on the same bald point of rock, coolly preening his black feathers.  Then, as we ran up towards him, he stretched forth his long neck, raised his wings, and sped away across the sea.  Either I had missed my shot, or the bird’s tough skin had felt no sensible touch.  And where now were all our birds?  Far out over the gray sea they flew, secure from the range of our gun.

We waited long for their return, but only an occasional kittiwake soared high above us, and some, bolder than the rest, presently returned to their brooding places on the cliffs.  We could not think of firing while the gulls were on the wing, they swept past us so quickly.  We therefore scrambled over some abutting rocks into a further bay, and still onward along the rough beach as far as the stack of Hellia—­a great steep rock standing out in the sea under the frowning height of St. John’s Head—­and here we found as large a number of birds as we had formerly seen.

We had arranged to take our shots turn about, and now it was Robbie’s turn.  Having charged the gun, we stood quiet for a time, patiently awaiting our chance.  A carrion crow flew to a rock between us and the water’s edge.  Robbie was ready.  He took a deliberate and steady aim and fired.  A feather dropped from the bird as it took flight.

“Man, Hal, I think that hit him!” exclaimed Robbie, running up to secure the feather.

“Ay,” said I.  “But I’m thinking we both want some practice, Robbie.  We’ll have no birds today, I reckon.  Let’s put up some cock-shy on yon rock and fire at it.  There’s no use shooting at the birds.  We’ll hit them, maybe; but we’ll not kill anything, I’m feared.”

So we erected a tall stone on the top of a rock, and, standing some paces from it, practised firing at the object until we could hit it, perhaps, once out of half a dozen tries.  But we soon got tired of this play, and I proposed climbing up to the top of the cliffs, for all the birds seemed to be flying high.

Walking along to a broken cleft of the headland, where a burn came down from the hills through a long gorge, we turned up the ravine and mounted the heights.  No sooner were we up there, however, than we found that the birds were all below us on the beach.

We were making our way up the ravine, Robbie carrying the climbing lines and I the loaded gun, when a large sea bird with wide-sweeping wings flew just over our heads.  Without thinking of hitting him, but simply wishing to empty the gun of its charge in case of accident, I took aim and fired.  The great bird faltered in its flight, one of its wings seemed to lose all power, and then with a circling swoop he came down with a thud upon a grassy knoll beside the stream.