"There a pit-held!" exclaims another voice. This homely spectacle is received with an affectionate sigh. Until two months ago more than half the platoon had never been out of sight of at least half a dozen. "See the kirk, in ablow the brae!" says some one else, in a pleased voice. "It has a nock in the steeple." "I hear they Gairmans send signals wi' their kirk-nocks," remarks Private M'Micking, who, as one of the Battalion signallers--or "buzzers," as the vernacular has it, in imitation of the buzzing of the Morse instrument--regards himself as a sort of junior Staff Officer. "They jist semaphore with the haunds of the nock--" "I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain goal in a fitba' match?" This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little, who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round. "Less talking there!" he announces severely, "or I shall have to stand you all at attention!" There is immediate silence--there is nothing the matter with Bobby's discipline--and the outraged M'Micking has to content himself with a homicidal glare in the direction of M'Leary, who is now hanging virtuously upon his officer's lips. "This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape target." He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the sergeant hurries to its assistance. "It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you--us--to become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and getting them by heart, and--er--so on. I want you all to study this picture for three minutes. Then I shall face you about and ask you to describe it to me." After three minutes of puckered brows and hard breathing the squad is turned to its rear and the examination proceeds. "Lance-Corporal Ness, what did you notice in the foreground of the picture?" Lance-Corporal Ness gazes fiercely before him. He has noticed a good deal, but can remember nothing. Moreover, he has no very clear idea what a foreground may be. "Private Mucklewame?" Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of mental exertion. "Private Wemyss?" No answer. "Private M'Micking!" The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing. "Well,"--desperately--"Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in the foreground." Sergeant Angus _(floruit_ A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier-- "The sky, sirr." "Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently. "About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try." In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism.