The amazing part of it all was that Lindsay very nearly did score five bulls. He actually got four, and would have had a fifth had not the stout sergeant, in excess of solicitude, tenderly wiped his watery eye for him with a grubby handkerchief just as he took the first pull for his third shot.
Altogether he scored nineteen; and the gallery, full of congratulations, moved on to inspect the performance of Private Budge, an extremely nervous subject: who, thanks to the fact that public attention had been concentrated so far upon Lindsay, and that his ministering sergeant was a matter-of-fact individual of few words, had put on two bulls—eight points. He now required to score only nine points in three shots.
Suddenly the hapless youth became aware of the breathless group in his rear. He promptly pulled his trigger, and just nicked the outside edge of the target—two points.
"I doot I'm gettin' a thing nairvous," he muttered apologetically to the sergeant.
"Havers! Shut your held and give the bull a bash!" responded that admirable person.
The twitching Budge, bracing himself, scored an inner—three points.
"A bull, and we do it!" murmured Bobby Little. Fortunately Budge did not hear.
"Ye're no daen badly," admitted the sergeant grudgingly.
Budge, a little piqued, determined to do better. He raised his foresight slowly; took the first pull; touched "six o'clock" on the distant bull—luckily the light was perfect—and took the second pull for the last time.
Next moment a white disc rose slowly out of the earth and covered the bull's-eye.