He is right.  The subaltern in charge of targets Thirteen to Sixteen, after a pained glance at the battered countenance of Number Thirteen, pauses before Fourteen, and jots down a figure on his butt-register.

“Fower, fower, fower, three, three, sirr,” announces Tosh politely.

“Three bulls, one inner, and an ahter, sir,” proclaims the Cockney sergeant simultaneously.

“Now, suppose I try,” suggests the subaltern gently.

He examines the target, promptly disallows Tosh’s last inner, and passes on.

“Seventeen only!” remarks Private Ogg severely.  “I thocht sae!”

Private Cosh speaks—­for the first time—­removing a paste-brush, and some patching-paper from his mouth—­

“Still, it’s better nor a wash-oot!  And onyway, you’re due us tippence the noo!”

By way of contrast to the frivolous game of chance in the butts, the proceedings at the firing-point resolve themselves into a desperately earnest test of skill.  The fortnight’s range-practice is drawing to a close.  Each evening registers have been made up, and firing averages adjusted, with the result that A and D Companies are found to have entirely outdistanced B and C, and to be running neck and neck for the championship of the battalion.  Up till this morning D’s average worked out at something under fifteen (out of a possible twenty), and A’s at something over fourteen points.  Both are quite amazing and incredible averages for a recruits’ course; but then nearly everything about “K(1)” is amazing and incredible.  Up till half an hour ago D had, if anything, increased their lead:  then dire calamity overtook them.

One Pumpherston, Sergeant-Major and crack shot of the Company, solemnly blows down the barrel of his rifle and prostrates himself majestically upon his more than considerable stomach, for the purpose of firing his five rounds at five hundred yards.  His average score so far has been one under “possible.”  Three officers and a couple of stray corporals gather behind him in eulogistic attitudes.

“How are the Company doing generally, Sergeant-Major?” inquires the Captain of D Company.

“Very well, sirr, except for some carelessness,” replies the great man impressively.  “That man there”—­he indicates a shrinking figure hurrying rearwards—­“has just spoilt his own score and another man’s by putting two shots on the wrong target.”

There is a horrified hum at this, for to fire upon some one else’s target is the gravest crime in musketry.  In the first place, it counts a miss for yourself.  In the second, it may do a grievous wrong to your neighbour; for the law ordains that, in the event of more than five shots being found upon any target, only the worst five shall count.  Therefore, if your unsolicited contribution takes the form of an outer, it must be counted, to the exclusion, possibly, of a bull.  The culprit broke into a double.