Having delivered himself, Sergeant-Major Pumpherston graciously accepted the charger of cartridges which an obsequious acolyte was proffering, rammed it into the magazine, adjusted the sights, spread out his legs to an obtuse angle, and fired his first shot.

All eyes were turned upon target Number Seven.  But there was no signal.  All the other markers were busy flourishing discs or flags; only Number Seven remained cold and aloof.

The Captain of D Company laughed satirically.

“Number Seven gone to have his hair cut!” he observed.

“Third time this morning, sir,” added a sycophantic subaltern.

The sergeant-major smiled indulgently,

“I can do without signals, sir,” he said “I know where the shot went all right.  I must get the next a little more to the left.  That last one was a bit too near to three o’clock to be a certainty.”

He fired again—­with precisely the same result.

Every one was quite apologetic to the sergeant-major this time.

“This must be stopped,” announced the Captain.  “Mr. Simson, ring up Captain Wagstaffe on the telephone.”

But the sergeant-major would not hear of this.

“The butt-registers are good enough for me, sir,” he said with a paternal smile.  He fired again.  Once more the target stared back, blank and unresponsive.

This time the audience were too disgusted to speak.  They merely shrugged their shoulders and glanced at one another with sarcastic smiles.  The Captain, who had suffered a heavy reverse at the hands of Captain Wagstaffe earlier in the morning, began to rehearse the wording of his address over the telephone.

The sergeant-major fired his last two shots with impressive aplomb—­only to be absolutely ignored twice more by Number Seven.  Then he rose to his feet and saluted with ostentatious respectfulness.

“Four bulls and one inner, I think, sir.  I’m afraid I pulled that last one off a bit.”

The Captain is already at the telephone.  For the moment this most feminine of instruments is found to be in an accommodating frame of mind.  Captain Wagstaffe’s voice is quickly heard.

“That you, Wagstaffe?” inquires the Captain.  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but could you make inquiries and ascertain when the marker on Number Seven is likely to come out of the chloroform?”

“He has been sitting up and taking nourishment for some hours,” replies the voice of Wagstaffe.  “What message can I deliver to him?”

“None in particular, except that he has not signalled a single one of Sergeant-Major Pumpherston’s shots!” replies the Captain of D, with crushing simplicity.

“Half a mo’!” replies Wagstaffe....  Then, presently—­

“Hallo!  Are you there, Whitson?”

“Yes.  We are still here,” Captain Whitson assures him frigidly.

“Right.  Well, I have examined Number Seven target, and there are no shots on it of any kind whatever.  But there are ten shots on Number Eight, if that’s any help.  Buck up with the next lot, will you?  We are getting rather bored here.  So long!”