At this latter practice especially Herbert became the admiration of the camp. Airplane-shaped balloons were sent up on windy days for the men to practise shooting at as they were blown swiftly by, but the majority were unsuccessful in hitting them, though a degree of excellence on the part of many rapid-firing marksmen was gained.
A lanky, loose-jointed, slow-moving young fellow from the mountains of Kentucky, Jed Shoemaker by name, long practised in the truly fine art of barking squirrels and knocking the heads off grouse, alternated with Herbert in holding the record for puncturing and bringing down these make-believe flying-machines; and in several contests between the two at ringed targets on short range the Kentuckian led slightly in scoring, but at long range, over a hundred yards, Herb generally had a little the better of it.
At these matches the utmost good nature was shown by both principals, though there were several rooters for Herbert who tried to belittle the mountaineer's shooting. But the big fellow did not let this mar the kindliness in his soul nor lessen his natural generosity toward a competitor. He would not boast over his winning.
Every time Herbert made a particularly fine shot or won a match his opponent would slap him on the back and shout:
"Center! Right in theh middle, b'gosh! Good! That's theh dern time you-all seed yer sights fine an' wiped my eye! Good boy!"
And Herbert was not to be outdone in this matter. He recognized the Kentuckian's real worth and a warm friendship sprang up between them. Roy Flynn, ever jolly, bright and big-hearted, and strong-minded Billy Phillips, made up a quartet that always pulled together and that never permitted to go unchallenged any snobbish reference or slurs at the mountaineer's backwoods' crudity. An army camp is a mecca of democracy, and any departure from the "Hail, fellow! Well met!" scheme of things is almost unanimously condemned.
Nevertheless, soldiers are but human, and in spite of their grim work they want something to laugh at, to make merry over, to relieve the tension of long hours of hard and almost constant effort. And such fellows as Jed Shoemaker, in appearance, manners, talk, could not help furnishing his companions with the desired means for hilarity at the big fellow's expense.
But the thing went further than this. There are in every big bunch of boys some who seem to get actual satisfaction out of turning jest to earnest, of making hateful reference out of happy chance; and such in the camp also took their whack at poor Jed.
Among this fish-minded, low-diving fry was Martin Gaul, he of the whisky-imbibing tendencies. He did not seem to be able to see the harmless, jovial, that's-a-good-joke-on-me character of the Kentuckian and so he turned what ludicrousness there was into bitter ridicule.
Whitcomb, Phillips, and Williams had agreed to say nothing about Flynn's scrap with Gaul, and Roy himself was the very last man to tell of it. Therefore Gaul came to recognize this and to gradually take advantage of it, exerting again his bluster and bullying tactics where he thought he could get away with them. Gaul was never jovial or good-natured, but in time became known in Company H barracks as "the grouchy one."