After an hour of turning and tossing, Pollard succeeded in dropping into a troubled sort of doze; but, as it seemed to him, he hardly had lost consciousness when the merciless little bell of the alarm-clock began to rattle out its diabolical reveille, compelling him, heavy-eyed and in a most villainous frame of mind, to struggle out from beneath the tangled bedclothes. A plunge into a tub of cold water did something towards freshening him up a bit, but when he buckled on his ammunition-belt and picked up his rifle he swore softly to himself at the day's prospect. However, a quick walk in the crisp air of the September morning sent the blood jumping cheerfully through his veins; and after he had made, at an in-town hotel, a halt long enough for the total destruction of a thick and generous tenderloin of steak, he strode over to the armory in a more confident mood.
And the match? Well, it was much like a hundred other matches that have been shot over the same stretch of level, close-cropped greensward: but "H" shot like sin, and it was a cruelly close thing—as Pollard had thought it would be—from the time when the first bullet was sent singing on its way towards the distant targets, until the last disk had been pushed up from the marking-pit.
According to his custom, Pollard coached his team until, except himself, all had fired; then, with a coolness at which he found himself wondering, he took his place at the firing-point and prepared to shoot his own score. Shot by shot the sergeant at the blackboard chalked up the results: three centres; a bullseye; another lone centre; two more bullets in the black; a fifth centre; a fourth bullseye—and one shot yet to be fired!
With his eyes upon the target, Pollard was slipping a cartridge into the chamber when he felt a touch upon his sleeve, and turning, saw Lieutenant Johnny, flushed with excitement, standing beside him. "Polly," whispered the youth, with utter forgetfulness of rank and title, "Polly, 'H' has finished! I'd never think of doing this with anybody besides you—but, to win, you'll have to get a 'bull.' A 'four' isn't going to do the trick, for we'd be outranked on a tie. You've got to land in the black!"
"Yes?" said the captain, dryly. "Well, Johnny, fall back—the gun might explode, you know," and with a last glance at the drooping wind-flags, he stiffened himself into position, gently lined the sights upon the far-off speck of black, and fired.
For five breathless seconds, while the little puff of pungent smoke lazily floated away, there was silence; and then, when the white disk went slowly creeping up over the face of the target to find its resting-place upon the bull's eye, there came from the watching men of "M" a sharp gasp of relief, followed by an exultant yell of victory.
"Steady!" commanded Pollard, swinging around upon his heel. "What's the matter with you, boys? Do you want to make people think we've never won before?" and, bending over to pick up his lightened cartridge belt, he walked towards the tents.
Late that afternoon, as the members of Pollard's team sat together in the smoker, on their way back to town, a newsboy entered the car. Pollard beckoned him to his side, bought an afternoon paper, and after rapidly running his eye down the columns of the outer page, handed the sheet to his lieutenant.
"Holy Smoke!" said that young man, catching a glimpse of the bold type heading the story of his captain's night adventure, "Is that the way you slept last night? Well, I'll be—"