Adventure, November 1915 — page 82: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

80 were plenty of experts on the field. Wasa two week’s lapse in training such a serious thing? The colonel, however, was remembering better scores than had ever been made on that range. Also he was gazing into Doran’s eyes. What he saw in them may in some - measure be guessed at. Remorse, perhaps, certainly a fierce entreaty, a passionate resolve, a rejuvenating upheaval of spirit that clothed the old face with Power. “T’m to blame,” half whispered Doran. Then, in a voice that was terrible in its pent up force. “And I can make up for it. I must! Colonel es : The colonel nodded. No man who saw Doran shoot that day will ever forget it. It was not that his accuracy was so marvelous, though he was high man on the range; but that it was so marvelous for him. From a palpably aging man, waging a hopeless fight against de- crepitude, muscles slackening, eyes dim- ming, voice held to the round tones of man- hood only by a sheer effort of the will, he had become in an instant revitalized, trans- figured with youth. It was almost a resur- rection, so clearly did the Doran of twenty years before nerve his arm, fill his voice, look from his eyes. : The Americans left two hundred yards three points behind the French; but they recovered their lead at three hundred. At five hundred yards the English made a “possible”’ score, and, thanks to a split cartridge in the belt of one of the Ameri- cans, quit that range two points ahead. Americans, French, and Germans trailed in that order. So far, it was any one’s match. Men noticed a change in Doran as he started back from the five hundred yard fir- ing line. He held himself as stiffly erect as before, his jaw was set as hard, his feet took hold on the ground in the same firm way; but there wasn’t quite the same glint to his eyes, and his voice, when he spoke to the range officer, had a strained note in it that made that official look at him anxiously. “How is Nichols, sir?’”’ he asked. “Better the last report, Doran. He’s in no danger. Are you all right?” FOR the first time in his military life Doran ignored a question put to him by an officer. He took his place at six hundred yards. Doran scored four; good for a sighting Sa Adventure shot at that range. The Americans gained a point on the English in the first round of shots, and repeated the gain in the second. Then Smedley got outside the three ring for one score, and at the end of the first string the English were again leading by two points. The peculiar atmosphere of a closely con- tested rifle match had come over the field. Conversation, even in whispers, had almost entirely stopped; the men sat or stood motionless, each nationality by itself, star- ing at the bobbing targets. It was this un- canny stillness that permitted the scorer be- hind target number four to hear Doran begin muttering something to himself after he had fired his eighth shot. The scorer crept up a little closer and listened. Doran was re- peating over and over again, ‘““Hold Hard!” At the ninth shot the English and Ameri- cans were tied again; at the tenth—Doran was the last man to fire. The Americans needed five to win. Doran threw himself into the sling, sprawling almost at right angles to the line of fire, legs spread wide, elbows buried in the sand, shoulder straining against the butt, eye along the barrel. Very slowly and steadily and confidently, he squeezed the trigger back until the firing-pin - fell and the rifle spoke. Then he called out clearly, as he had taught numberless re- cruits to call their shots— ‘‘Number four, a five!’ He did not need to see the white disk come up and cover the bull, and it was as well; for before the shot was marked he had fallen limply, face downward, on the firing point. THERE was a hush over Megwa Fu that evening, a quiet that would have been remarkable at any time, but that was extraordinary on the eve of a triumphant day. Everything was not understood — the mystery of Sergeant Nichols’ sudden illness still remained a mys- tery—but the fullness of Doran’s gift to them was made more and more evident to the men with each reluctant report from the | sick-bay. No one was allowed to visit Doran. That was the order of the surgeon; but one man defied it. Driven away, he came back stealthily, and succeeded in getting to the door of the ward before the hospital steward caught him. His almost tearful pleadings rose above the steward’s threat to call the corporal of the guard. (EO) NOOK (C© 5