Part 10 (1/2)

”That you, Wagstaffe?” he inquires cheerily. ”Look here, we're going to fire Practice Seven, Table B,--snap-shooting. I want you to raise all the targets for six seconds, just for sighting purposes. Do you understand?”

Here the bell rings continuously for ten seconds. Nothing daunted, the Captain tries again.

”That you, Wagstaffe? Practice Seven, Table B!”

”T'chk, t'chk!” replies Captain Wagstaffe.

”Begin by raising all the targets for six seconds. Then raise them six times for five seconds each.--no, as you were! Raise them five times for six seconds each. Got that? I say, are you _there_? What's that?”

”_Przemysl_” replies the telephone--or something to that effect.

”_Czestochowa! Krsyszkowice! Plock_!”

The Captain, now on his mettle, continues:--

”I want you to signal the results on the rear targets as the front ones go down. After that we will fire--oh, _curse_ the thing!”

He hastily removes the receiver, which is emitting sounds suggestive of the buckling of biscuit-tins, from his ear, and lays it on its rest. The bell promptly begins to ring again.

”Mr. c.o.c.kerell,” he says resignedly, ”double up to the b.u.t.ts and ask Captain Wagstaffe--”

”I'm here, old son,” replies a gentle voice, as Captain Wagstaffe touches him upon the shoulder. ”Been here some time!”

After mutual asperities, it is decided by the two Captains to dispense with the aid of the telephone proper, and communicate by bell alone.

Captain Wagstaffe's tall figure strides back across the heather; the red flag on the b.u.t.ts flutters down; and we get to work.

Upon a long row of waterproof sheets--some thirty in all--lie the firers. Beside each is extended the form of a sergeant or officer, tickling his charge's ear with incoherent counsel, and imploring him, almost tearfully, not to get excited.

Suddenly thirty targets spring out of the earth in front of us, only to disappear again just as we have got over our surprise. They are not of the usual bull's-eye pattern, but are what is known as ”figure”

targets. The lower half is sea-green, the upper, white. In the centre, half on the green and half on the white, is a curious brown smudge.

It might be anything, from a splash of mud to one of those mysterious brown-paper patterns which fall out of ladies' papers, but it really is intended to represent the head and shoulders of a man in khaki lying on gra.s.s and aiming at us. However, the British private, with his usual genius for misapprehension, has christened this effigy ”the beggar in the boat.”

With equal suddenness the targets swing up again. Crack! An uncontrolled spirit has loosed off his rifle before it has reached his shoulder. Blistering reproof follows. Then, after three or four seconds, comes a perfect salvo all down the line. The conscientious Mucklewame, slowly raising his foresight as he has been taught to do, from the base of the target to the centre, has just covered the beggar in the boat between wind and water, and is lingering lovingly over the second pull, when the inconsiderate beggar (and his boat) sink unostentatiously into the abyss, leaving the open-mouthed marksman with his finger on the trigger and an unfired cartridge still in the chamber. At the dentist's Time crawls; in snap-shooting contests he sprints.

Another set of targets slide up as the first go down, and upon these the hits are recorded by a forest of black or white discs, waving vigorously in the air. Here and there a red-and-white flag flaps derisively. Mucklewame gets one of these.

The marking-targets go down to half-mast again, and then comes another tense pause. Then, as the firing-targets reappear, there is another volley. This time Private Mucklewame leads the field, and decapitates a dandelion. The third time he has learned wisdom, and the beggar in the boat gets the bullet where all mocking foes should get it--in the neck!

Snap-shooting over, the combatants retire to the five-hundred-yards firing-point, taking with them that modern hair-s.h.i.+rt, the telephone.

Presently a fresh set of targets swing up--of the bull's-eye variety this time--and the markers are busy once more.

III

The interior of the b.u.t.ts is an unexpectedly s.p.a.cious place. From the nearest firing-point you would not suspect their existence, except when the targets are up. Imagine a sort of miniature railway station--or rather, half a railway station--sunk into the ground, with a very long platform and a very low roof--eight feet high at the most.

Upon the opposite side of this station, instead of the other platform, rises the sandy ridge previously mentioned--the stop-b.u.t.t--crowned with its row of number-boards. Along the permanent way, in place of sleepers and metals, runs a long and narrow trough, in which, instead of railway carriages, some thirty great iron frames are standing side by side. These frames are double, and hold the targets. They are so arranged that if one is pushed up the other comes down. The markers stand along the platform, like railway porters.

There are two markers to each target. They, stand with their backs to the firers, comfortably conscious of several feet of earth and a stout brick wall, between them and low shooters. Number one squats down, paste-pot in hand, and repairs the bullet-holes in the unemployed target with patches of black or white paper. Number two, brandis.h.i.+ng a pole to which is attached a disc, black on one side and white on the other, is acquiring a permanent crick in the neck through gaping upwards at the target in search of hits. He has to be sharp-eyed, for the bullet-hole is a small one, and springs into existence without any other intimation than a spirt of sand on the bank twenty yards behind. He must be alert, too, and signal the shots as they are made; otherwise the telephone will begin to interest itself on his behalf.