The Match

Brigadier-general Harding, grizzled, grim, but possessing that human quality without which no commander of men is entirely successful, gazed into the level, steady, smiling brown eyes of the boy who stood straight, tall and every inch a soldier before him.

"Anyone who understands shooting at all ought to be able to tell what he knows and how he does it," Herbert answered. "Shooting is a good deal like anything else that's lots of fun; you've got to love it and study it and have good eyes and then practise. And then, too, there's the gun. You've got to have a perfect gun to make A-1 scores and to do any fancy shooting."

"Well, that's a good gun, isn't it?"

"No; not very. I guess they make them so fast and so many of them that the boring tool wears and the rifling is not the best. Then, too, the sights may not be perfectly centered—you've got to look to that. The stock, too, is queer; it doesn't fit like a gun should."

"I have been led to suppose that this is as good as a rifle could be."

"It may be as good as an army gun can be made on contract, cheaply and in great quantities. But I doubt even that. As a fine shooting-piece it is not to be mentioned alongside of the high-grade sporting rifles you can buy. If you wanted to go into a rifle match, or if you went after lions or elephants or grizzly bears you wouldn't pick out this; you'd get a gun with a reputation and that you could rely on perfectly. With a gun of that sort a nearly perfect score on a six-inch bull's-eye wouldn't be out of the way."

"But these guns are all inspected, I am told," argued the general.

"You can only inspect the shooting qualities of a gun by trying it carefully; the bore might look all right, but yet the grooves may keyhole a bullet or cut one side out of it and make it shoot almost around a corner."

"You keep your gun clean, of course? A dirty gun may give bad results."

"Perfectly clean! A dirty gun will never shoot straight."

The general turned to Roy Flynn.

"And you can do this sort of hitting, too? Let's see you."

And Roy did it, not exactly punching a big hole in the center of his bull's-eye with a few only a little nearer the edge, as Herbert had done, but all his shots were safely in the black. Again the letter "P" went up and genuine admiration was expressed by the little coterie of onlookers. Roy, answering direct praise from Colonel Walling, indicated his chum.

"Owe it to him, sir. He taught me to shoot. Couldn't hit a flock of church steeples comin' at me before he showed me. I used to have a sort of bright idea that the harder you pulled the trigger the harder she shot, until he told me and which end to put to me shoulder. But I agree with him about these fowlin' pieces; they weren't rightly made for shootin' at all, but I think for beatin' carpet. You ought to just see me own gun and Whitcomb's."

"What calibers are your guns?" asked the general.

"They shoot a 30-30," Herbert said.

"Would you boys prefer using them?"

Both expressed themselves as most pleased to be allowed to do this.

"Then send for them; we shall have them bored for the government cartridge, if you are willing, and see if you can show them superior. Will you see that this is done, Captain Leighton? Now, Whitcomb, when instructing, how would you go about it, first?"

"Show a man how to hold a gun and how to pull it hard against his shoulder. Then to see his sights, hunting sights at first, with both eyes open."

"Both open?"

"By all means, sir. That doesn't strain the sighting eye; it doesn't dim the object fired at; it permits, on the plan of the stereoscope, to get some idea of the distance of the target. I think that nearly all very expert shots open both eyes; all trap shooters do."

The officers all laughed outright and the general queried:

"How about that, Captain Pierce? You are an expert shot, I believe."

"Not that expert!" The officer addressed waved his hand at the targets. "Perhaps the reason is that I shut one eye. But the best marksman I ever knew, excepting present company of course, an old fellow in the West, used to open both eyes; he said no man could shoot excellently with one eye shut. And yet, general, our physical examiners condemn a bad right eye and admit a bad left one."

"That's a question for them to settle at Washington. Well, gentlemen, have these scores all turned in for a general conference on the subject and we shall pick our quota of men for this new formation and recommend officers. I shall name Whitcomb in ours, for one squad, and as an instructor until they leave. Come, there is much else to do."

"Fine, fine, fine business, old scout!" caroled Roy when the two were alone. "I knew you'd catch the boss."

"But, Roy, it isn't fair. I couldn't get in a word—but you also deserve to be made a corporal."

"Cor-nothing. A corpse, mebbe. And if you don't have me in your squad, then, me for a deserter, by cracky! Say, I wonder what they are going to do with us as lead slingers, anyway."

But this query was to remain unanswered for many a long day, during which time the business of the camp, that of making expert soldiers, went on through the summer months, the boys seeing many changes take place in the make-up of the troops.

After a time some were sent to the South; others came: regiments of rookies, National Guardsmen, regulars or some companies made up of all of these, the purpose being for the experienced men to set the greenhorns an example.

But almost unchanged, though increasing in numbers, the marksmen's platoon, at first so called, but growing at last under instruction into a full provisional company, went bravely on perfecting itself in the art of getting ready to knock over individual Germans at long range, or to pot a low-flying enemy airplane.

At this latter practice especially Herbert became the admiration of the camp. Airplane-shaped balloons were sent up on windy days for the men to practise shooting at as they were blown swiftly by, but the majority were unsuccessful in hitting them, though a degree of excellence on the part of many rapid-firing marksmen was gained.

A lanky, loose-jointed, slow-moving young fellow from the mountains of Kentucky, Jed Shoemaker by name, long practised in the truly fine art of barking squirrels and knocking the heads off grouse, alternated with Herbert in holding the record for puncturing and bringing down these make-believe flying-machines; and in several contests between the two at ringed targets on short range the Kentuckian led slightly in scoring, but at long range, over a hundred yards, Herb generally had a little the better of it.

At these matches the utmost good nature was shown by both principals, though there were several rooters for Herbert who tried to belittle the mountaineer's shooting. But the big fellow did not let this mar the kindliness in his soul nor lessen his natural generosity toward a competitor. He would not boast over his winning.

Every time Herbert made a particularly fine shot or won a match his opponent would slap him on the back and shout:

"Center! Right in theh middle, b'gosh! Good! That's theh dern time you-all seed yer sights fine an' wiped my eye! Good boy!"

And Herbert was not to be outdone in this matter. He recognized the Kentuckian's real worth and a warm friendship sprang up between them. Roy Flynn, ever jolly, bright and big-hearted, and strong-minded Billy Phillips, made up a quartet that always pulled together and that never permitted to go unchallenged any snobbish reference or slurs at the mountaineer's backwoods' crudity. An army camp is a mecca of democracy, and any departure from the "Hail, fellow! Well met!" scheme of things is almost unanimously condemned.

Nevertheless, soldiers are but human, and in spite of their grim work they want something to laugh at, to make merry over, to relieve the tension of long hours of hard and almost constant effort. And such fellows as Jed Shoemaker, in appearance, manners, talk, could not help furnishing his companions with the desired means for hilarity at the big fellow's expense.

But the thing went further than this. There are in every big bunch of boys some who seem to get actual satisfaction out of turning jest to earnest, of making hateful reference out of happy chance; and such in the camp also took their whack at poor Jed.

Among this fish-minded, low-diving fry was Martin Gaul, he of the whisky-imbibing tendencies. He did not seem to be able to see the harmless, jovial, that's-a-good-joke-on-me character of the Kentuckian and so he turned what ludicrousness there was into bitter ridicule.

Whitcomb, Phillips, and Williams had agreed to say nothing about Flynn's scrap with Gaul, and Roy himself was the very last man to tell of it. Therefore Gaul came to recognize this and to gradually take advantage of it, exerting again his bluster and bullying tactics where he thought he could get away with them. Gaul was never jovial or good-natured, but in time became known in Company H barracks as "the grouchy one."

Shoemaker, of Company D, now also an instructor in rifle practise and a newly appointed corporal in the marksmen's platoon, was talking to several men outside of barracks when Gaul joined them.

"We-all," announced the Kentuckian, "are a-goin' tu have a leetle rifle match atween two picked teams, an' hit's goin' tu be a corker! Me an' Whitcomb's captins of theh two bunches, an' jedgin' from theh way some o' theh fellers is shootin' lately, it'll be a sight tu make yer eyes watter."

"If your eyes watered much there wouldn't be anything left of you, you big simp!" snapped Gaul. "You don't think you can get a bunch that can shoot with Whitcomb's crew; do you? Won't have a show." Gaul seemed unusually bitter.

"Mebbe not! Mebbe not! Cain't jest tell till they try. Theh's right smart fellers tu pick from."

"Good land, fellow, where did you learn to talk? You murder the language like a butcher sticks hogs. Can't you speak English better?"

"Well, I hain't had no chanct tu go tu school none, er not much, anyway. Sort o' reckon I kin make me understood, though, some, even though I cain't spout like you-all, b'gosh!"

"'You-all! Hain't! Reckon! Chanct!' Saints have mercy! If I had to talk like that I'd commit suicide. When you came here from where you hang up your hat why didn't you bring some brains, or don't they have 'em down there?"

"They has 'em, sure," laughed Jed, "but mebbe they don't try to use 'em none, for mighty few of 'em goes tu jail er Congress. When this heh war is over how'd you-all like tu come down theh in our mountings an' learn we-uns some o' your blame smart orneryness?"

This raised a laugh at Gaul and it very naturally made that fellow lose his temper. And with him to get angry was to want to fight, or threaten it, getting away with the bluff, if possible.

"What you want is a good, hard wallop, you lop-sided ignoramus, and mebbe you'll get it if you get too gay with me!" Had Gaul turned then and seen Herb and Roy standing observant across the company street he would have been less blustering, but now he had to talk loud to offset Shoemaker's wit.

But lanky Jed wasted no more repartee on that evidently quarrelsome fellow, the sting of whose sarcasm he had repeatedly felt before. He only laughed, then grew suddenly grave. He thrust his long face almost against that of Gaul.

"I'm a-waitin' fer thet wallop!" he invited.

Gaul was more of a moral coward than a physical one; he could never have it said that he refused such a dare, especially from an ignorant guy who surely could know nothing of the manly art. And so Gaul made the mistake of drawing back for a swinging punch and in that second Jed's face was withdrawn and with one swift leap upward, which stunt previously no one would have given him credit for, he shot out two long legs the extremities of which caught Gaul in the chest and sent him to earth in a heap. The others had to lift him to his feet.