"This  is  something  like,"  he  said,  luxuri-
ously. "Wot  a  'evinly  clear  drop  for  a  bullet
acrost.    How  much  d'  you  make  it,  Mulvaney?"

'"Seven  hunder.  Maybe  a  trifle  less,  bekase
the  air's  so  thin."

Wop !  wop !  wop !  went  a  volley  of  musketry
on  the  rear  face  of  the  north  hill.
"Curse  them  Mixed  Pickles  firin'  at  nothin' !
They'll  scare  'arf  the  country."

"Thry  a  sightin'  shot  in  the  middle  of  the
row,"  said  Mulvaney,  the  man  of  many  wiles.
"There's  a  red  rock  yonder  he'll  be  sure  to
pass.     Quick!"

Ortheris  ran  his  sight  up  to  six  hundred
yards  and  fired.  The  bullet  threw  up  a  feather
of  dust  by  a  clump  of  gentians  at  the  base  of
the  rock.
"'Good  enough!"  said  Ortheris,  snapping
the  scale  down.  "You  snick  your  sights  to
mine,  or  a  little  lower.  You're  always  firin'
high.  But  remember,  first  shot  to  me.  Oh,
Lordy,  but  it's  a  lovely  afternoon."

The  noise  of  the  firing  grew  louder,  and
there  was  a  tramping  of  men  in  the  wood.
The  two  lay  very  quiet,  for  they  knew  that  the
British  soldier  is  desperately  prone  to  fire  at
anything  that  moves  or  calls.  Then  Learoyd
appeared,  his  tunic  ripped  across  the  breast  by
a  bullet,  looking  ashamed  of  himself.  He
flung  down  on  the  pine-needles,  breathing  in
snorts.
"One  o'  them  damned  gardeners  o'  th'
Pickles,"  said  he,  fingering  the  rent.  "Firin'
to  th'  right  flank,  when  he  knowed  I  was  there.
