"Here the officer!" says the warning voice of Hogg. "I doot he'll no
allow your last yin, Peter."
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.
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