Horace watched the deft movements of the artillerists, as they made sure that the sighting-gear was in place and that the training and elevating levers were working smoothly.
"You wanted to see fighting, Horace," said Croquier, pointing with his finger, "well, look!"
In the dull, hot afternoon haze, the boy saw black figures which seemed no larger than ants run up the hillside, far, far ahead and then suddenly disappear as they threw themselves down. Jets of up-thrown earth showed where the shells were striking, and a rising cloud of dust, like to that raised by a tooth-harrow being dragged over plowed land on a dry day, told, to accustomed eyes, the terrible tragedy of the curtain of leaden hail.
"Gun-layers—forward!" came the sharp command.
A pause.
"That twisted willow, two points this side of the church-steeple."
"We see it."
"Use that!"
The commander gave the elevation and the range.
The guns were laid, the breeches returning smoothly to rest with their burden of death.