Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force

by Percy F. Westerman

With the typical fierceness of a tropical storm the rain beat down. Hailstones as big as a walnut thudded the ground, rebounding a foot or so in the air until all around was blotted out by the terrific downpour. Underneath the waterproof sheet Dudley lay, knowing that there was no chance of the sniper venturing from his lair while this battery of nature's weapons was in action. It was almost pitch-black, save for the phosphorescent-like light emanating from the falling rain. Occasional vivid flashes of lightning o'erspread the sky, followed by rumbling peals of thunder.

Taking particular pains to keep his rifle dry Wilmshurst lay close until the initial downpour had passed. Then, acting as promptly as his crippled condition would allow, he laid the muzzle of the weapon on a fork of one of the bushes. As he expected he found that he could take aim without much risk of being spotted, since the bush formed an efficient screen.

Still no sign of the sniper. Wilmshurst had no definite idea of the fellow's position. He could only surmise, basing his assumption on the report of the rifle, that he was either on the kopje ahead or else concealed behind one of the boulders on its side.

"Fritz knows how to play a waiting game too, I see," muttered Wilmshurst, as he deliberately wiped off a globule of water that had dropped upon the backsight of his rifle. "Hope he won't keep me waiting about till after midnight. I must stick it till he shows up."

The wounded subaltern bore no animosity towards the man who had shot him. In a true soldierly spirit he realised that the Hun had acted like a sportsman. It was merely a question of which scout was the sharper and Wilmshurst had been caught napping. Really he wanted to congratulate Fritz upon his excellent shot, but before qualifying his wishes on that score he must get his own back—shot for shot.

A thin haze of bluish smoke rose from a depression in the ground, and, caught by the wind, eddied into obscurity.

"Silly juggins!" exclaimed Wilmshurst. "Bad habit smoking when you're supposed to be en perdu. Now I know where to look for you."

The Hun was evidently arriving at a conclusion that he had "downed his man," but with the intention of waiting a little longer he was not able to resist the inclination of smoking a pipe.

Bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder Wilmshurst lingered over the sights—not with the idea of firing at a wreath of smoke, but to test his ability to "pull off" gently. To his surprise he found that the throbbing pain in his left shoulder had little or no effect upon his steadiness of aim. Provided Fritz showed himself the subaltern felt almost certain of scoring an "inner" if not a "bull."

In a quarter of an hour the puffs of smoke ceased. Wilmshurst had a mental vision of the Hun knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot and placing the pipe away in his pocket.