“You’re too fat to shoot, Stuffer,” interrupted a youth who spoke with a strong Irish accent. “Sure, if you had to crawl up on the inimy, like in war, you’d tip over on your nose!” And at this sally from Joseph Hogan a laugh arose.
“I’d rather be fat than skinny,” retorted Paul, whose waist measurement exceeded that of any other cadet of the Hall.
“Where are we to do the practicing?” asked another boy, who was somewhat of a newcomer, having been a pupil at the Military Academy for less than a term.
“I understand we are to go to Rawling’s pasture, Fred,” answered Jack Ruddy. “Captain Putnam is going to make the test a very thorough one, too, for he says all of the students here ought to be first-class marksmen.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to know how to handle a rifle,” answered Fred Century. “I’ve used a shotgun, in the woods, but never a rifle. I’m afraid I’ll make a rather poor showing at first.”
“Many of the fellows will,” returned the young major. “It isn’t given to everybody to become a good shot, no matter how hard a fellow tries.”
While the others were talking, a big, broad-shouldered youth joined the gathering. He was Dale Blackmore, the captain of the Putnam Hall football team, and a general leader in all kinds of athletic sports.
“Talking about the rifle practice, eh,” said Dale. “I just heard the other fellows talking of it, too. One of ’em said he was going to show your crowd how to shoot,” and he nodded toward Jack Ruddy.
“Who was it?” questioned the young major.
“Reff Ritter.”