The match began. Colonel Hamilton, of the retired list, and Captain Bromstead, of the active company, made the first pair. Bromstead has rather educated ideas about the handling of a rifle, and Colonel Hamilton seldom scatters much lead outside the four ring; but in this particular match the shooting of both was something fearful to behold and wonderful to reflect upon. For the captain’s seven shots netted just twenty-one points, while Hamilton, after piling up an even twenty, fell back from the firing point in well feigned disgust.
And so it went, as pair after pair took their turn at the targets, until—amid a storm of good-natured chaffing—all except Kerwick and Pollard had fired. Up to this point, the top score was twenty-five. It had been made by little Poore, junior lieutenant of the company, who afterwards apologized to Pollard for doing such brilliant work, explaining that, by way of experiment, he had closed both eyes when firing his last shot, by which means—to his utter astonishment and no small chagrin—he had plumped his bullet dead into the center of the bullseye.
“Major Pollard and Captain Kerwick!” called the scorer. Kerwick stepped quickly to his place, and the major slowly followed.
“After you, Pollard,” said Kerwick, with a nod towards the targets, to signify that the major should lead off.
“No, no, Captain,” said Pollard; “after you. I’m defending the cup, you know, and it’s my privilege to see what I must shoot against.”
Kerwick tested the pull of his piece, looked keenly at the sights, gave just the slightest touch to the wind-gauge, slipped in a cartridge, and then leveled the long barrel upon the target. For three seconds he stood motionless, and then he fired. It was a bullseye. The group behind him sent up a murmur of applause, which was promptly checked by Colonel Elliott. Pollard threw his piece easily to his shoulder, aimed quickly fired, and brought up a bullseye in his turn.
Kerwick’s second shot was a close four; Pollard’s, another bullseye. On the third attempt, Kerwick again found the black, while the major’s shot was a very chilly center. After the sixth round had been completed, the captain stepped back and glanced at the scorer’s blackboard. The story then read:
| Captain Kerwick | 5, 4, 5, 4, 4, 5 |
| Major Pollard | 5, 5, 4, 4, 4, 5 |
He went back to his place, and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to drive away the dazzling glare of the sun upon the snow. Barring a bright red spot on either cheek, his face was ashen pale. Those who were watching him closely noticed that his knees were slightly trembling.
Among the officers in rear of the firing point there was suppressed excitement. Little Poore drew Bromstead aside, and in a whisper confided to him his opinion that Pollard was a combination of pirate, bunco-steerer, and all-’round brute. He also hinted at the advisability of jamming a handful of snow down the back of Pollard’s neck, in order to disarrange his nervous system. Colonel Elliott, with one hand deep in his trousers’ pocket, savagely clutching the roll of bills confided to his keeping, stood blackly scowling at Pollard, and endeavoring to catch his eye. But the major calmly went on with the operation of blowing through the barrel of his rifle, and never once turned to see what might be going on behind him.