“Oh, not so bad as that,” said the Instructor. “We’ve all got to begin somehow. Try another?” But Boy Jones was not practising any more that afternoon. He seemed to need soothing.
“Come over to the big range,” said the Friend. “You’ll see the finished article at work down there. This is only for boys and beginners.”
A knot of village lads from twelve to sixteen were scuffling for places on the shooting-mat as Boy Jones left the shed. On his way to the range, across the windy Downs, he preserved a silence foreign to his sunny nature. Jevons, the bricklayer’s assistant, and the F. R. G. S. trotted past him—rifles at the carry.
“Awkward wind,” said Jevons. “Fishtail!”
“What’s a fishtail?” said Boy Jones.
“Oh! It means a fishy, tricky sort of a wind,” said the Friend. A shift in the uneasy northeast breeze brought them the far-away sob of a service rifle.
“For once in your young life,” the Friend went on, “you’re going to attend a game you do not understand.”
“If you mean I’m expected to make an ass of myself again——” Boy Jones paused.
“Don’t worry! By this time I fancy Jevons will have told the Sergeant all about your performance in the shed just now. You won’t be pressed to shoot.”
A long sweep of bare land opened before them. The thump of occasional shots grew clearer, and Boy Jones pricked his ears.