Kerwick passed his hand over the breast of the snugly clinging blouse, and became aware, in doing it, that something lay hidden beneath its surface. Unbuttoning it, he drew out the cigar case. “Ah, that was thoughtful of you,” said he. “Thank you, Polly.”
Struck by a sudden thought, he ran his fingers into the pocket where the lone bill had been. The modest wad of money came into view. He colored slightly, and then tried a second pocket, whereby he discovered the little silver watch, which looked him boldly in the face, and promptly ticked out its holiday greeting. In its turn, too, the match box came to light. And all the while Pollard stood by, surveying the proceedings with a grin of satisfied approval.
“The match box and the matches in it,” explained the major, “are from Santa Claus. The same applies to the cigar case and its contents. The watch and those few bills are a loan from me; you’ll return ’em when it’s most convenient. And now we must be moving.”
The two ex-captains breakfasted together, and then hastened down to the station for the early morning train. With a little group of other past officers they were standing upon the platform, when the shrill squeak of a fife and the lively rattle of a drum came clearly on the crisp December air, to warn them that the boys were drawing near. And in a moment, to the tune of The Bold MacIntyre, the company came swinging in through the wide doorway and down the long platform, making the vaulted roof of the trainhouse resound with the steady tramp, tramp, tramp of the marching column.
Three officers, white-gloved and trim; fifty men, muffled in the blue great-coats of the service; fifty rifles sloping at the trail; belts black and glossy, buttons and brasses glittering like polished mirrors—it all went to make as bright a picture of the pomp and circumstance of volunteering as one could wish to see.
The train slowly pulled out from the long station, bearing the jolly little army towards its peaceful battle ground. Pollard settled Kerwick safely at the forward end of the car, with Colonel Elliott, and then industriously began the final development of the grand idea which had taken shape in his brain the night before. One after another he button-holed the dozen or so officers in the car, attacking each one somewhat after this fashion:
“Here’s old Kerwick back again. Seems good to see him, doesn’t it? Blamed good fellow, if ever there was one! Well, he’s been having a horrible run of luck lately. I happen to know that he’s hard pushed, and is worrying over it. But he’s clear sand, grit ’way through to the vertebræ—and none of us ever will find out from him how he’s been getting it in the neck. Now, I want to fix up a sort of benefit for him. You’ll help me out in it? Of course; knew you would. But we can’t chip in to give him anything. He’s too infernally proud: wouldn’t have it, you know.
“Here’s what I’d propose: we’ll make up a sweepstake in the cup match, throw in five dollars apiece, and then let Kerwick win the whole business. None of us will be killed by dropping a fiver, but the aggregate pot will give the old chap quite a lift. He used to shoot like a demon once. Don’t know if he can now—but we can make sure that we shoot worse than he does, anyway. We’ll have to do all this quietly, on account of the men; ’twouldn’t do to have ’em get the idea that we’re gambling. Grand strategy on a small scale, isn’t it?” And with this, Pollard would release that particular victim, and start off in search of yet another recruit for his enterprise.
The annual shoot of “M” Company certainly was a notable success. The Kerwick Medal was won on the phenomenal score of thirty-three points, in seven shots; and no less than sixteen of the fifty men competing for it managed to roll up an average of centers, or better. But when it came to the struggle for the Kerwick Cup—well, that was a different matter!
Pollard quietly had collected the entries for the sweepstake, and had turned over the money to Colonel Elliott, who—not being a past officer of the company—could not shoot for the cup. He had some difficulty in getting Kerwick into the match, but finally succeeded in persuading him that it would look odd if he, with his past reputation as a rifle sharp, should persist in staying out. There were twelve competitors in all, and consequently the colonel found himself the custodian of sixty dollars’ worth of the Government’s paper.