at obliterates "the bull." The scorers
interpret. "A four at three o'clock," "a three at nine o'clock," "a clean
five, high up," "a nipper four at twelve o'clock," and with a little
chuckle, "a ricochet five!"

Over it all, behind the butts, against the low clouds, rose a silent blue
hill, one of the distant Adirondacks.

In spite of our new greatcoats it grew chilly waiting. I took my time,
wrote notes of this for you, listened, watched. At last I was called to
the bench among those whose turn was next. There at the smoking lamp I
blackened my sights, and then carefully laying the gun on the rack I sat
down, still in my greatcoat, and while others fidgeted with impatience,
or shivered in their sweaters, I remembered that after all I was only a
civilian, and remained calm.

My name being called at last, I went forward to the little rise where,
beside a white stake, I was to shoot. I adjusted my sling and lay down to
the left of the stake; to the right was Lucy, tense and pale. My coach
was a stranger; his was good Clay. My coach tried in vain to get me to
take the position he preferred; it hurt and strained me, and he gave up.
As I slowly got the position I was used to, working my elbows into the
sand, bracing my toes, keeping my body close to the ground, my left hand
twisted in the sling and supporting the barrel, my right at the trigger
and stock, and my cheek at the butt, to my left a rifle heavily spoke,
and in spite of cotton my ear rang. Then Lucy shot. I heard the scorer
say, "Mr. Farnham, a miss!" and I chuckled as I prepared to shoot.

My coach knelt over me and repeated "Squeeze!" I got the sights in line,
the bull in place above the front sight, which was--or should have
been--on a line with the top of the U of the open sight, for I was afraid
of the peep sight. "Are you shooting on twenty-eight?" asked the coach. I
verified the number of my target, then tried to hold the wavering muzzle
steady, and for the first time tightened my hand-grip on the trigger of a
rifle capable of killing at two miles. It jumped sharply in my hands, I
saw the red flame at the muzzle as I heard the report, and felt myself
kicked smartly in the shoulder. Then, spent with all this tension, I
relaxed my grip and collapsed on my face.

There was a discouraging pause as I lay, waiting to hear the hit
announced. Then the scorer cried "Mark Twenty-eight!" The man at the
field telephone repeated the order. I knew the fact--at the butt