The
culprit broke into a double.
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.
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