Says Private Walker (oblivious of Captain Wagstaffe's proximity) to his friend, Private M'Leary--in an affected parody of his instructor's staccato utterance-- "_At yon three Gairman spies, gaun' up a close for tae despatch some wireless telegraphy_--_fufty roonds_--_fire_!" To which Private M'Leary, not to be outdone, responds-- "_Public hoose_--_in the baur_--_back o' seeven o'clock_--_twa drams_--_fower fingers_--_rapid!"_ II From this it is a mere step to-- "Butt Pairty, '_shun!_ Forrm fourrs! Right! By your left, quick _marrch_!" --on a bleak and cheerless morning in late October. It is not yet light; but a depressed party of about twenty-five are falling into line at the acrid invitation of two sergeants, who have apparently decided that the pen is mightier than the Lee-Enfield rifle; for each wears one stuck in his glengarry like an eagle's feather, and carries a rabbinical-looking inkhorn slung to his bosom. This literary pose is due to the fact that records are about to be taken of the performances of the Company on the shooting-range. A half-awakened subaltern, who breakfasted at the grisly hour of a quarter-to-six, takes command, and the dolorous procession disappears into the gloom. Half an hour later the Battalion parades, and sets off, to the sound of music, in pursuit. (It is perhaps needless to state that although we are deficient in rifles, possess neither belts, pouches, nor greatcoats, and are compelled to attach, our scanty accoutrements to our persons with ingenious contrivances of string, we boast a fully equipped and highly efficient pipe band, complete with pipers, big drummer, side drummers, and corybantic drum-major.) By eight o'clock, after a muddy tramp of four miles, we are assembled at the two-hundred-yards firing point upon Number Three Range. The range itself is little more than a drive cut through, a pine-wood. It is nearly half a mile long. Across the far end runs a high sandy embankment, decorated just below the ridge with, a row of number-boards--one for each target. Of the targets themselves nothing as yet is to be seen. "Now then, let's get a move on!" suggests the Senior Captain briskly. "Cockerell, ring up the butts, and ask Captain Wagstaffe to put up the targets." The alert Mr. Cockerell hurries to the telephone, which lives in a small white-painted structure like a gramophone-stand. (It has been left at the firing-point by the all-providing butt-party.) He turns the call-handle smartly, takes the receiver out of the box, and begins.... There is no need to describe the performance which ensues. All telephone-users are familiar with it. It consists entirely of the word "Hallo!" repeated _crescendo_ and _furioso_ until exhaustion supervenes. Presently Mr. Cockerell reports to the Captain-- "Telephone out of order, sir."