The two snipers of the Royal Midlandshires, the shooter and the observer, were comfortably in their post. The shooter was longing for a cigarette, which regulations forbade lest the enemy—two hundred yards away—should see the smoke issuing from the concealed loophole; but the observer, Private William Entworth, was studying the parapet opposite.
Suddenly he spoke:
“Line of water-tower. Red sandbag. Left. Two feet.”
Saunders’ eyes picked up the water-tower in the distance, ranged to the parapet, found the red sandbag, then swung to the left of it. Yes, something moving. He cuddled the stock of his rifle, and brought the pointer in the telescope to bear. Then slowly he began to squeeze the trigger.
“Don’t shoot.”
Entworth was only just in time.
“Why not, ole son?”
“It’s only a cat.”
“A ’Un cat! ’Ere goes.”
“Come off it. If you get shootin’ cats outer this post Mr. Nowell’ll—— Besides, it’s rather a nice-lookin’ cat. Tortoiseshell colour. We ’ad one in Ferrers Street ’e reminds me of.... There, ’e’s climbin’ up on the bloomin’ parados, curlin’ round and goin’ to sleep just as if there wasn’t no war. Shall I enter ’im?”