Elsewhere in the annals of The Third it has been stated—and the statement proven—that Major Pollard can shoot. Here it will be shown that he can shoot not only well, but also most thoughtfully.

It was the night before Christmas. Pollard was walking slowly along the street, on his way home from the theater. He felt at peace with himself and with all the rest of the world; for that afternoon, by a despairing and truly heroic effort, he had managed to dispatch a half-dozen neat parcels conveying to the immediate members of his family the greetings appropriate to the season. And this was an achievement of no small magnitude; for everybody knows how difficult it is to pick out various sorts of gifts for various sorts of people, especially when certain of those people are women, and the giver of the gifts has the misfortune to be a man—and a single one. Which will explain, it may be, why so many men get themselves married, and then straightway delegate to their wives full authority in the matter of selecting presents.

The air was keen. A light, powdery snow came lazily drifting down, only to find its whiteness quickly lost upon the much traveled pavement. A red-cheeked newsboy, whining the old, old story about being “stuck,” placed himself in Pollard’s path; and the major, in the true spirit of Christmastide, was exploring his pocket in search of the necessary bit of silver—when, full in the glare of an electric lamp, there came into sight a figure that somehow seemed familiar.

Stopping short in his hunt for a dime, Pollard stared hard at the approaching form; and then, tossing to the expectant urchin the first coin upon which his fingers chanced to close, he started in pursuit of his man, who already had passed him, and was going at a rate of speed that made it probable that in another minute he would be lost to view in the midst of the theater crowd upon the sidewalk. A few rapid strides brought the major to his side, and a last, quick glance satisfied him that he had not been mistaken. “Hello, Kerwick,” said he, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the other. “Thought I couldn’t be wrong. Well, well! I’m more than glad to see you back again.”

At the sound of Pollard’s voice the man stopped and shrank away. He had been walking rapidly along, with head lowered and eyes fixed upon the ground, as if to avoid any chance recognition. He wore no overcoat, and the collar of his shiny, black cutaway was turned up to protect his throat from the biting night air. Taken as a whole, he was not a cheerful object to contemplate.

“Ah, it’s you, Pollard, is it?” he said, with a side glance at the major. “How are you? I’m just back from the West today. Nasty night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” assented Pollard, noting that his ill-conditioned friend could with difficulty keep from shivering; “too nasty for making visits on the curbstone. I’m just going to raid some place for oysters and other hot things. You’ll join me, Captain?”

At the sound of this title the other drew himself up a bit; but in an instant he fell back a pace, flushing painfully. “Join you?” he said bitterly, thrusting his benumbed hands deeply into his trousers’ pockets; “join you! Good God, Pollard, look at me!”

“Well, I am looking at you,” said the major, allowing his gaze to travel slowly up and down the shrinking figure before him. “You certainly look terribly seedy, and not much like the Captain Kerwick under whom I used to serve. But if that’s any reason for your refusing to sit down to half-a-dozen Blue-Points with me, why, I simply fail to see it.”

“I’ll not do it,” said the other doggedly. “No, Pollard, I’ll not do it. I’m out of your world, and you’re out of mine. That’s the long and short of it. Possibly you noticed that I didn’t say I was glad to see you? Well, I’m not. I’m confoundedly sorry I set eyes on you; or, rather, that you set eyes on me. Will you let me go now? Good night.”

Without a word in reply to this outbreak, Pollard slipped an arm under that of his friend, and used the other to aid his voice in attracting the attention of a passing cab. When the vehicle pulled up beside the curbing, he wrenched open the door, good-naturedly pushed in his prisoner, and followed, after having given to the driver the address of his cosey bachelor rooms in an up-town hotel.

“My dear man,” said he, drawing up the heavy robe and carefully tucking it around his thinly clad companion, “it’s useless for you to protest. There’s been a change since you were lord high autocrat of ‘M’ Company. I’ve climbed up from lieutenant to captain, and then from captain to major; so you can see the utter folly of trying to dispute my commands. You’ll have to submit, Kerwick, and you’ll do well to submit gracefully.”

“And now,” said Pollard, twenty minutes later, after he had settled his captive in a big arm-chair before the glowing coal fire in his rooms, “now we’ll consider the question of supper, first. Other matters may wait their turn. You may bring up,” to the neatly uniformed colored boy who had appeared in answer to his vigorous assault upon the electric bell, “two half-dozens of oysters on the shell, and a small tenderloin steak, fairly well-done, and a bottle of—” He gave a side glance at the man seated before his fire. “And a pot of coffee,” he amended.

“That last was well thought of,” said Kerwick, as the bell boy left the room. “You’re still observant, I see. Well, you’ve guessed it; the bottle has held altogether too prominent a place in my recent history.”

The ruins of the supper had been cleared away. Kerwick was again installed before the fire, with a cigar. Pollard lighted his old black briar, pulled a chair towards the hearth, and said, as he seated himself, “We’re not to have a green Yuletide, this year, after all. It’s snowing in earnest now.”

“H’m! tomorrow’s Christmas,” murmured Kerwick, with something like a sigh. “So it is. I hadn’t thought much about it. Well, Pollard, you haven’t asked me yet—but I suppose you’re waiting for me to give an account of myself.”

The major nodded, and smoked on in silence while his friend told the story of the past few years: How he had broken away from all his early associations in order to grasp at what had seemed a chance for making rapid fortune in the West; how reverses had come quickly, one upon another, until—baffled and beaten at every point—he had yielded under the repeated blows, and finally had staggered and gone down beneath the weight of discouragement.

“And here I am, back again,” Kerwick wound up, flinging into the fire his half finished cigar, as if its flavor brought to him some of the bitterness of recent disappointment; “here I am, at forty-five, in what should be the prime of my life—homeless, hopeless, penniless, and out of the game.”

“Yes?” said Pollard, as the other finished. “Now, old man, see here: you’re not to throw away my cigars in the same careless way in which you’ve thrown away your chances. They’re too choice, if I do say it, to be handled disrespectfully. Take another, and smoke it.” He pushed the box across the table towards Kerwick. “These weeds were made to be burned—but not in open grates.”

Kerwick laughed shortly, picked a fresh cigar from the box, and lighted it. “You’ll have to pardon me,” said he. “That was temporary insanity. I haven’t smoked a decent cigar, before these, in nobody knows how many months.”

“Now, as for your croaking,” resumed Pollard, giving emphasis to his remarks by an occasional thump of his heavy fist upon the arm of his chair; “I’m going to make the only comment that seems to fit the case. Which is, ‘Stuff!’ For you’re playing now with nothing to lose and everything to win. Why, Kerwick, you must see it! Nothing from nothing leaves nothing; but nothing plus something may amount to almost anything. Confound you, old man! I used to look up to you as the embodiment of grit and push—and I’ll not let you tumble down in my estimation, nor in your own.”

“Too late, Polly,” answered Kerwick in a low tone, half unconsciously letting fall a nickname of the old days. “You mean well, but it’s too late—it’s too late now.”

“Blessed if it isn’t!” exclaimed the major, putting upon the words of the other a construction of his own. “It’s quarter to twelve, and high old time for us to be sliding into bed. There’s a good day’s work cut out for both of us tomorrow. I dare say you haven’t forgotten the bit of silverware that used to go by the name of ‘The Kerwick Cup’? Well, tomorrow we shoot for it.”

Now, it might be well to mention that Kerwick, in the prosperous days when he was captain of “M” Company, was a rifleman of great enthusiasm, and of no small skill. And when, on leaving for the West, he resigned his commission, he gave to his old command, as memorials of his interest in the most manly of all sports, two trophies—The Kerwick Cup, and The Kerwick Medal. These were to be shot for in annual competition: the medal, by the enlisted men; the cup, by the active and past officers of the company. And for a number of years it had been the custom to shoot both these matches on the forenoon of Christmas day.

“Are those old things still in existence?” asked the captain, with a slight show of interest. “Really! I’d half forgotten them. But then,” wearily, “I’ve forgotten most of the things in which I ever found any pleasure.”

“Bah! you couldn’t forget the fun we’ve had together; no, not for the life of you,” Pollard burst out impatiently. “Well, the old cup’s still waiting to be won; and so’s the medal. Sergeant Harvey—he was a corporal in your day, wasn’t he?—won the medal three times straight, which nearly gave it to him for keeps. But he’s out of the service now. The cup? Oh, I’m bidding high myself for the cup. My name’s been engraved on it for three years, hand-running, and tomorrow may or may not send it my way for the fourth and final holding.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” said Kerwick; “both the old things had to be won four times consecutively in order to pass the title. I hope you’ll pull out all right, Pollard; I’d be glad to know that the mug was decorating your mantel. I’ll look for your score in the papers. Well, as you say, it’s growing late. You’ve given me a very pleasant evening, and I’d like to tell you how it has brought back old times, being up here with you in this way—but perhaps I needn’t. Good night.” And with this he rose, buttoned his thin black coat closely about him, and held out his hand.

In an instant Pollard was upon his feet. “What the deuce are you thinking of doing?” he demanded, placing himself by a sudden movement between Kerwick and the door. “Going to leave me, eh? Not much! You’re my prisoner, sir; sit down.” For a minute the captain faced Pollard, with an appealing look upon his face; but he ended by yielding to the stronger will, and obediently dropped back into his chair. The major came over to the fireplace, and took up his position upon the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. His teeth were firmly set upon the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, and as he spoke he punctuated his sentences with an occasional short puff of smoke. “Now pay attention to what I’m saying to you,” he began, looking down kindly upon the man before him, “because it has ‘Official’ stamped all over it, and it’s not to be disputed about, nor argued over.”

“Six years ago,” said Pollard, letting himself drop back until his broad shoulders rested comfortably against the high mantel-shelf, “you and I were good friends. As I recall it, we used to find life rather a pleasant sort of thing. But, not content with leaving well enough alone, you had to send yourself chasing away after the pot of gold at the foot of the western rainbow. Well, luck didn’t run your way: either you didn’t hold openers, or else the pot was buried too deeply to be easily got at—and here you are, back again, after having made a most praiseworthy attempt at going to the devil.”

“Is this a sermon?” asked Kerwick, at this point in Pollard’s discourse.

“No, it isn’t,” said the major earnestly; “at least, it’s not meant for one. But what I’m getting at is this: you’ve got to borrow a leaf from the politician’s book, and ‘put yourself into the hands of your friends.’ Now, we can’t map out a whole career for you at a single sitting; so we’ll simply settle the programme for the next forty-eight hours, and call it a night’s work at that.”

“Thanks!” said Kerwick dryly. “To tell the truth, I don’t feel quite up to arranging my future at the present moment.”

“No?” said Pollard. “Neither do I. But you may consider this much of it as having been already arranged: tomorrow we go out with the company, shoot in the cup match—you may win your own mug, if you’re lucky enough—then we come back to town, dine together, and wind up the day with an old-fashioned evening of yarning and smoking, up here in these rooms; day after tomorrow, we consider what’s to be done with you; after that, we begin to do it. See?” “I wish I could, Polly,” began Kerwick, “but—”

“Oh, about clothes and things,” broke in the major; “I can fit you out to a button. We go out in fatigue, you know, tomorrow: well, when I got my last promotion, I was so tickled over it that I treated myself to a whole new outfit, so I’ve my captain’s uniform still on hand, and it’ll fit you like wall paper unless you’ve changed several sizes since last we ran together.”

The clock upon the mantel began to strike. From without, hushed and mellowed by the thickly falling snow, came the sound of the chimes in old St. Luke’s.

“Hello! it’s morning,” said Pollard, as the clock’s deep-toned gong told off the last stroke of midnight. “Merry Christmas, Kerwick! Merry Christmas, old man! Got ahead of you that time, didn’t I? And now we must crawl under the blankets, for in ten hours from now we’ll be bullseye chasing.”

Kerwick slowly rose from his chair. He placed both hands on Pollard’s shoulders, looked him full in the face, and said, “God bless you, Polly!” And then, the least bit huskily, he added, “Perhaps you’re right, after all. Perhaps it’s not too late.”

Pollard saw his old commander safely stowed away in the little box of a room that he was pleased to call his guest chamber, and then went about his preparations for the coming match. First, he put in order his rifle, and filled his thimble belt with half a hundred cartridges of his own careful loading. Then, after laying out his own uniform, he hunted through closet and wardrobe until he had got together a captain’s full outfit, which he placed upon a chair, just outside the door of Kerwick’s room.

For a moment he stood there listening. From within came the sound of deep, regular breathing. He softly turned the knob, and stepped into the room. Kerwick lay sound asleep, with his face turned towards the wall. Feeling like a full-fledged thief, Pollard laid hands upon the waistcoat which hung at the head of the bed, and then stealthily crept out of the room.

There was no watch in the waistcoat. Pollard opened a drawer of his desk, took out a plain silver timepiece—a relic of his school days—wound and set it, and slipped it into its proper pocket. He explored the other pockets. In one he found a ragged two dollar bill; in another, a stub of pencil and a card of common matches. That was all.

Tossing the vulgar brimstone matches into the fire, he went again to his desk and rummaged about until he found a silver match box—one of many that had come to him on birthdays and other times of the sort—which he filled with parlor matches and placed in the lower, left-hand pocket. Then he drew out a roll of bills, picked out three crisp fives, folded them up, once lengthwise and once across, with Kerwick’s poor, tattered banknote, and tucked the money snugly into the lower, right-hand pocket. And then he stole back into the captain’s room, and hung the garment in the place in which he had found it.

“Poor devil! He’s utterly done up,” he said to himself, as he left the room, after a last glance at his sleeping guest. “And no wonder! Well, there’s another Santa Claus tradition gone wrong! I haven’t put anything into the old chap’s socks. Never mind. The chances are that they’re too full of holes to make the filling of ’em a possibility.” He went over to the mantel, filled a leather cigar case with Perfectos, and stowed it away in the inner pocket of the fatigue jacket which lay ready for Kerwick to don in the morning. This done, he stood thinking for a moment before the fire, and then, beginning rapidly to throw off his clothes, he muttered, “Yes, that will work. It’s sure to!” With which truly oracular remark he started off to bed.

Christmas day came in under a clear sky. Pollard rose at an early hour, went to the window for a hasty glance at the snowy world outside, and then rapped noisily at his friend’s door, singing out cheerily, “Hi! Kerwick. Time you were getting up.” And to hasten matters, he whistled the bars of Reveille, the lively call which, many a time, had brought them tumbling out from their blankets when under canvas with the Old Regiment.

Kerwick’s night of untroubled sleep had worked wonders. After a dip into the bath, and ten minutes’ careful work with the razor, he looked another man. And when at last, arrayed in captain’s uniform, he had inspected himself in Pollard’s mirror, he faced about, threw back his shoulders, and said with a healthy ring in his voice, “Polly, my son, I’ve been pretty far down, but I’ll live up to my old rank again—if only for today.”

“Did anybody ever see such a fit?” asked Pollard, gazing admiringly at the natty appearance of his friend. “Talk about being melted and poured into clothes! Why, that blouse looks as if it had been frescoed on you.”

Kerwick passed his hand over the breast of the snugly clinging blouse, and became aware, in doing it, that something lay hidden beneath its surface. Unbuttoning it, he drew out the cigar case. “Ah, that was thoughtful of you,” said he. “Thank you, Polly.”

Struck by a sudden thought, he ran his fingers into the pocket where the lone bill had been. The modest wad of money came into view. He colored slightly, and then tried a second pocket, whereby he discovered the little silver watch, which looked him boldly in the face, and promptly ticked out its holiday greeting. In its turn, too, the match box came to light. And all the while Pollard stood by, surveying the proceedings with a grin of satisfied approval.

“The match box and the matches in it,” explained the major, “are from Santa Claus. The same applies to the cigar case and its contents. The watch and those few bills are a loan from me; you’ll return ’em when it’s most convenient. And now we must be moving.”

The two ex-captains breakfasted together, and then hastened down to the station for the early morning train. With a little group of other past officers they were standing upon the platform, when the shrill squeak of a fife and the lively rattle of a drum came clearly on the crisp December air, to warn them that the boys were drawing near. And in a moment, to the tune of The Bold MacIntyre, the company came swinging in through the wide doorway and down the long platform, making the vaulted roof of the trainhouse resound with the steady tramp, tramp, tramp of the marching column.

Three officers, white-gloved and trim; fifty men, muffled in the blue great-coats of the service; fifty rifles sloping at the trail; belts black and glossy, buttons and brasses glittering like polished mirrors—it all went to make as bright a picture of the pomp and circumstance of volunteering as one could wish to see. The train slowly pulled out from the long station, bearing the jolly little army towards its peaceful battle ground. Pollard settled Kerwick safely at the forward end of the car, with Colonel Elliott, and then industriously began the final development of the grand idea which had taken shape in his brain the night before. One after another he button-holed the dozen or so officers in the car, attacking each one somewhat after this fashion:

“Here’s old Kerwick back again. Seems good to see him, doesn’t it? Blamed good fellow, if ever there was one! Well, he’s been having a horrible run of luck lately. I happen to know that he’s hard pushed, and is worrying over it. But he’s clear sand, grit ’way through to the vertebrÆ—and none of us ever will find out from him how he’s been getting it in the neck. Now, I want to fix up a sort of benefit for him. You’ll help me out in it? Of course; knew you would. But we can’t chip in to give him anything. He’s too infernally proud: wouldn’t have it, you know.

“Here’s what I’d propose: we’ll make up a sweepstake in the cup match, throw in five dollars apiece, and then let Kerwick win the whole business. None of us will be killed by dropping a fiver, but the aggregate pot will give the old chap quite a lift. He used to shoot like a demon once. Don’t know if he can now—but we can make sure that we shoot worse than he does, anyway. We’ll have to do all this quietly, on account of the men; ’twouldn’t do to have ’em get the idea that we’re gambling. Grand strategy on a small scale, isn’t it?” And with this, Pollard would release that particular victim, and start off in search of yet another recruit for his enterprise.

The annual shoot of “M” Company certainly was a notable success. The Kerwick Medal was won on the phenomenal score of thirty-three points, in seven shots; and no less than sixteen of the fifty men competing for it managed to roll up an average of centers, or better. But when it came to the struggle for the Kerwick Cup—well, that was a different matter!

Pollard quietly had collected the entries for the sweepstake, and had turned over the money to Colonel Elliott, who—not being a past officer of the company—could not shoot for the cup. He had some difficulty in getting Kerwick into the match, but finally succeeded in persuading him that it would look odd if he, with his past reputation as a rifle sharp, should persist in staying out. There were twelve competitors in all, and consequently the colonel found himself the custodian of sixty dollars’ worth of the Government’s paper.

The match began. Colonel Hamilton, of the retired list, and Captain Bromstead, of the active company, made the first pair. Bromstead has rather educated ideas about the handling of a rifle, and Colonel Hamilton seldom scatters much lead outside the four ring; but in this particular match the shooting of both was something fearful to behold and wonderful to reflect upon. For the captain’s seven shots netted just twenty-one points, while Hamilton, after piling up an even twenty, fell back from the firing point in well feigned disgust.

And so it went, as pair after pair took their turn at the targets, until—amid a storm of good-natured chaffing—all except Kerwick and Pollard had fired. Up to this point, the top score was twenty-five. It had been made by little Poore, junior lieutenant of the company, who afterwards apologized to Pollard for doing such brilliant work, explaining that, by way of experiment, he had closed both eyes when firing his last shot, by which means—to his utter astonishment and no small chagrin—he had plumped his bullet dead into the center of the bullseye.

“Major Pollard and Captain Kerwick!” called the scorer. Kerwick stepped quickly to his place, and the major slowly followed.

“After you, Pollard,” said Kerwick, with a nod towards the targets, to signify that the major should lead off.

“No, no, Captain,” said Pollard; “after you. I’m defending the cup, you know, and it’s my privilege to see what I must shoot against.”

Kerwick tested the pull of his piece, looked keenly at the sights, gave just the slightest touch to the wind-gauge, slipped in a cartridge, and then leveled the long barrel upon the target. For three seconds he stood motionless, and then he fired. It was a bullseye. The group behind him sent up a murmur of applause, which was promptly checked by Colonel Elliott. Pollard threw his piece easily to his shoulder, aimed quickly fired, and brought up a bullseye in his turn.

Kerwick’s second shot was a close four; Pollard’s, another bullseye. On the third attempt, Kerwick again found the black, while the major’s shot was a very chilly center. After the sixth round had been completed, the captain stepped back and glanced at the scorer’s blackboard. The story then read:

He went back to his place, and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to drive away the dazzling glare of the sun upon the snow. Barring a bright red spot on either cheek, his face was ashen pale. Those who were watching him closely noticed that his knees were slightly trembling.

Among the officers in rear of the firing point there was suppressed excitement. Little Poore drew Bromstead aside, and in a whisper confided to him his opinion that Pollard was a combination of pirate, bunco-steerer, and all-’round brute. He also hinted at the advisability of jamming a handful of snow down the back of Pollard’s neck, in order to disarrange his nervous system. Colonel Elliott, with one hand deep in his trousers’ pocket, savagely clutching the roll of bills confided to his keeping, stood blackly scowling at Pollard, and endeavoring to catch his eye. But the major calmly went on with the operation of blowing through the barrel of his rifle, and never once turned to see what might be going on behind him.

Kerwick raised his rifle, and aimed. But the barrel perceptibly wavered, and after an instant of hesitation he lowered the piece. He drew a long breath, aimed again, and then—then, with a convulsive jerk, he pulled the trigger.

At the crack of the rifle a little spray of glittering snow spurted up into the sunlight, just beyond the right edge of the target. The strain had been too heavy. Kerwick’s last and all important shot had gone wide! A small, red flag was raised before the face of the target. Slowly, mockingly it was waved to and fro. “Miss,” said the scorer softly, as he chalked down the fatal zero.

Pollard glanced quickly at the unlucky captain, and then settled into position for firing. Kerwick laughed weakly, and faced about, to walk away. But suddenly he stopped, turned from the sympathizing group behind the firing point, and fixed his gaze upon the targets; for he had become aware that the muscles around his mouth were twitching, and that—because of the glaring snow, perhaps—his eyes were being blinded by a hot gush of tears.

There came a sharp report. Pollard’s last bullet was speeding its way across the two hundred yards of snow. And in a moment the white disk crept into sight—but not on Pollard’s target! Bullseye though the shot was, it could be scored only as a miss.

“Da’—thunderation!” yelled Pollard, giving an exhibition of realistic acting sufficiently fine to have made Salvini faint dead away, could he have seen it. “Oh, glory! I’m on the wrong target—and there goes the blooming old cup! Kerwick’s score outranks. What luck! Oh, what infernal luck!”

There was a roar from the crowd. The knot of excited watchers did not need to be reminded of the rule that, in the case of an absolute tie, the winning score is the one in which the ranking shots lie nearest towards the end. Half the officers sought relief for their feelings by thumping Kerwick upon the back. The other half, among whom little Poore was more than conspicuous, piled themselves upon Pollard. And it was a long time before anybody heard Kerwick protesting that, whatever else he might have won, the cup was Pollard’s, because of a clause in the half-forgotten deed of gift by which the donor was barred from winning his own trophy.

“Why did I do it?” said Pollard later, when reproached for the brilliancy of his shooting in the earlier part of his score. “Well, you see, I just had to. Old Kerwick wouldn’t have half enjoyed his winning if he hadn’t been pushed for the place. Besides, if I’d shot much worse, that child Poore would have gobbled the cup, which never would have done. For I wanted that myself. But I felt like a beast, just the same, when poor old Kerwick broke down, after he’d started a lead mine in the snow with that last bullet of his.”