Across the river and into the trees, chapter 1.

They started two hours before daylight, and at first it was not necessary to break the

ice across the canal as other boats had gone on ahead.

In each boat in the darkness, so you could not see but only hear him, the polar stood

in the stern with his long awe.

The shooter sat on a shooting stool, fastened to the top of a box that contained his lunch

and shells, and the shooter's two or more guns were propped against the load of wooden

decoys.

Somewhere in each boat there was a sack with one or two live mallard hens, or a hen and

a drake, and in each boat there was a dog who shifted and shivered uneasily at the sound

of the wings of the ducks that passed overhead in the darkness.

Once again, there's no getting away from earnest Hemingway.

Welcome to Stage 17.

Well, this is a jolly nice place, but my concern is that you're not feeling well enough

to appreciate it, it's good to have you back on the pod because you were in bits and pieces

last night, weren't you?

Yeah, I've taken some drugs, courtesy of our friend Massey, quite a big drug, actually.

I won't name it.

I need to, but all I can say, it was quite hefty, and people with narrow throats would

probably possibly have to ground it up and put it in food, like you do for pets.

But no, I've found, yeah, just felt a bit grim yesterday, and as the day went on, felt

grimer and grimer and grimer, and you kindly drove the three and a half hour transfer,

...