PURELY A MATTER OF BISLEYNESS.
PRIVATE R. VAN WINKLE opened his eyes, and, taking up his rusty rifle, marched towards the new ranges.
"Dear me!" said he, gazing with amazement at his surroundings, "this is not at all like what I saw when I went to sleep."
"No, RIP, it is not," replied Mr. Punch, who happened to be in the neighbourhood. He had been watching his sweetest Princess making a bull's-eye at the opening ceremony.
"Why, it is twice as large as Wimbledon," continued the astounded warrior.
"You are well within the limit," the Sage assented, "and see, there is plenty of space. No fear of damaging any of the tenants of GEORGE RANGER in this part of the country."
"No, indeed!" exclaimed Private VAN WINKLE. "Not that I think His Royal Highness had much cause of complaint. The truth is—"
"Let bygones be bygones," interrupted Mr. Punch. "GEORGE RANGER is no longer your landlord, except, in a certain sense, representing the interests of the Regular Army, and I shall keep my eye upon him in that capacity."
"An entirely satisfactory arrangement. But where are the fancy tents, and the luncheon parties, and all the etceteras that used to be so pleasant at Wimbledon?"
"Disappeared," returned Mr. Punch, firmly. "Bisley is to be more like Shoeburyness (where the Artillery set an excellent example to the Infantry) than the Surrey saturnalia."
"And is it to be all work and no play?"
"That will be the general idea. Of course, in the evening, when nothing better can be done, there will be harmonic meetings round the camp-fires. But while light lasts, the crack of the rifle and the ping of the bullet will be heard in all directions, vice the pop of champagne corks superseded. And if you don't like the prospect, my dear RIP, you had better go to sleep again."
But Private VAN WINKLE remained awake—to his best interests!