The platoon commander nodded, for Jerry was a privileged favourite. He was also a remarkably fine shot.
So Jerry nestled his cheek cosily down to his little gun and took a deep breath, while the two or three near him looked on with interest. Jerry lifted his head again, for he was an artist and knew the value of arousing expectation.
"And will it be a golden sovereign if I take the coat-tails of the little ould gentleman with the spy-glasses?" This was Jerry's way of making a bet.
"Yes; I'll bet you a sovereign you won't down that officer on the right, and he looks like the colonel," said the platoon commander. It was a 500 yards' shot, and hazy, too.
Jerry carefully judged the distance by a half-way haystack, adjusted his sight, and settled down once again. "For the ould counthry!" he breathed, and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The "little ould gentleman" was seen to clap his hand smartly to his leg, while two men ran up to him.
"Will ye double the stakes, yer honour, for me to take the three o' them?" said Jerry over his shoulder, clicking his bolt back and forward again.
"A fiver, Jerry, if you do it."
Jerry wedged his rifle between two stones, took a slightly fuller sight, and almost before you could have counted them three shots cracked out.
"Have you that fiver on you, yer honour, or will I be taking an IOU?" And Jerry leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction as a mighty cheer ran down the trench, and the platoon officer shook him hard by the hand. What the enemy thought about it one could only surmise, but a few of the men shook their fists threateningly in the direction of the British lines.