“Mr. Cockerell,” he says resignedly, “double up to the butts 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 butts 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 grass 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-shirt, the telephone.