"I never knew a range telephone that wasn't," replies the Captain, inspecting the instrument. "Still, you might give this one a sporting chance, anyhow. It isn't a _wireless_ telephone, you know! Corporal Kemp, connect that telephone for Mr. Cockerell." A marble-faced N.C.O. kneels solemnly upon the turf and raises a small iron trapdoor--hitherto overlooked by the omniscient Cockerell--revealing a cavity some six inches deep, containing an electric plug-hole. Into this he thrusts the terminal of the telephone wire. Cockerell, scarlet in the face, watches him indignantly. Telephonic communication between firing-point and butts is now established. That is to say, whenever Mr. Cockerell rings the bell some one in the butts courteously rings back. Overtures of a more intimate nature are greeted either with stony silence or another fantasia on the bell. Meanwhile the captain is superintending firing arrangements. "Are the first details ready to begin?" he shouts. "Quite ready, sir," runs the reply down the firing line. The Captain now comes to the telephone himself. He takes the receiver from Cockerell with masterful assurance. "Hallo, there!" he calls. "I want to speak to Captain Wagstaffe." "Honkle yang-yang?" inquires a ghostly voice. "Captain Wagstaffe! Hurry up!" Presently the bell rings, and the Captain gets to business. "That you, Wagstaffe?" he inquires cheerily. "Look here, we're going to fire Practice Seven, Table B,--snap-shooting. I want you to raise all the targets for six seconds, just for sighting purposes. Do you understand?" Here the bell rings continuously for ten seconds. Nothing daunted, the Captain tries again. "That you, Wagstaffe? Practice Seven, Table B!" "T'chk, t'chk!" replies Captain Wagstaffe. "Begin by raising all the targets for six seconds. Then raise them six times for five seconds each.--no, as you were! Raise them five times for six seconds each. Got that? I say, are you _there_? What's that?" "_Przemysl_" replies the telephone--or something to that effect. "_Czestochowa! Krsyszkowice! Plock_!" The Captain, now on his mettle, continues:-- "I want you to signal the results on the rear targets as the front ones go down. After that we will fire--oh, _curse_ the thing!" He hastily removes the receiver, which is emitting sounds suggestive of the buckling of biscuit-tins, from his ear, and lays it on its rest. The bell promptly begins to ring again. "Mr. Cockerell," he says resignedly, "double up to the butts and ask Captain Wagstaffe--" "I'm here, old son," replies a gentle voice, as Captain Wagstaffe touches him upon the shoulder. "Been here some time!" After mutual asperities, it is decided by the two Captains to dispense with the aid of the telephone proper, and communicate by bell alone. Captain Wagstaffe's tall figure strides back across the heather; the red flag on the butts flutters down; and we get to work.