Shorty, could one hit 'em with a gun?" The glazing eyes
brightened; the lolling head straightened with a jerk.

"Sure thing." Shorty looked at him, and understood. "Like to try,
boy; you'd get the cocoa-nut, I'll bet."

"That's it, Shorty; that's it. Turn me over, an' prop me up. I'd like
to. . . . Lord! man, I can see 'em there, hundreds of 'em running to
beat the band. Give me the gun, Bill, quick; I must just get one;
I. . . ."

With powerless hands he took the rifle for the last time, and looked
along the sights. "God!" he whimpered, "I can't hold it steady--I
can't. . . . Shorty, Shorty, I'm wobbling all over the target."

But Shorty did not come to him. He was lying on the ground two or
three feet away, with his own rifle hugged to his shoulder. "If there
be anything in religion," he muttered fiercely, "let me shoot straight
this time, God."

"That's all right," he shouted; "you've got him covered fine. Fire,
son, fire--an' hit the perisher. You ain't wobbling."

And so Reginald Simpkins, lance-corporal and man, fired his last shot.
Heaven knows where it went; all that matters is that a running
grey-green figure two hundred yards away suddenly threw his hands above
his head and pitched forward on his face.

"Great shooting, son, great shooting." Shorty Bill was beside him,
turning him over once again on his back. "You plugged him clean as a
whistle. Good boy."

The grey had spread; the end was very near. "I thought I
heard--another shot--close by." The tired eyelids closed. "I've made
good, Shorty, ain't I? . . . Honourable Jimmy . . . Regiment great
thing . . . responsibility . . . greater. . . ." And so he died.

IX

"AND OTHER FELL ON GOOD GROUND"

Shorty Bill thoughtfully ejected a spent cartridge case from his
magazine and pulled back the safety catch. "I'm glad I hit him. It'll
be something for the boy to take away with him. I suppose he'll
remember it." Shorty's brow wrinkled with the strain of this abstruse
theological problem. Then he shrugged his shoulders and gave it up.
"So long, son; you made good--you did well. But the old Tank has
cleared 'em out, an' I must be toddling on." Then he remembered
something, and produced his own patent weapon. It was only as he
actually started to cut another nick in the long row which adorned the
stock of his rifle that he paused: paused and looked up.

"Lumme! I'd better wait a bit; it wouldn't never do for the boy