AT TARGET PRACTICE
“Here we are! Now to make nothing but bull’s-eyes!”
It was Pepper who spoke, as the Hall cadets came to a halt in Rawling’s
pasture,—a lot containing nearly a hundred acres which were almost as
smooth as a barn floor. It had taken the battalion almost an hour to
march there, and the students were allowed half an hour in which to rest
up previous to beginning the contest on the three ranges which had been
established in the pasture. The ranges were of one hundred yards, two
hundred yards, and three hundred yards, the last named distance being
deemed sufficiently great for the light rifles the cadets used. Had they
had arms of greater caliber, Captain Putnam would have made the long
range five hundred yards.
“I don’t expect to make very much of a score,” said Andy Snow. “I am not
much of a shooter. Now if it was a contest in the gym.——”
“Andy would win all the medals,” finished Jack, with a laugh.
“I’d rather have a fishing contest,” put in Stuffer, who loved to go out
with his rod.
“Sure, and what’s the matter wid an eating contest, Stuffer?” inquired
Hogan, with a broad grin. “I’m after thinking you’d take the head prize
there—and all the others, too!”
“Huh, you needn’t talk,” grumbled Stuffer. “I notice you can do your
share when we sit down in the mess hall.”
“That’s one thing I like about Putnam Hall,” declared Fred Century. “A
fellow always gets enough to eat—at least I do. Now at Pornell Academy
the meals were very uneven. The dinners were usually good, but some of
the suppers were woefully slim.”
“If the meals were slim here I’d rebel,” answered Pepper.
“So would I!” cried Stuffer. “I’d raise the biggest kick you ever heard
of.” How true their words were to become we shall see later.
The shooting soon began—at a distance of one hundred yards, and for two
hours there was a steady crack! crack! of the rifles.
Each cadet had three shots at each target. A bull’s-eye counted five, so
a perfect score would total up to forty-five.
On the short range, Jack managed to make three bull’s-eyes, thus scoring
15. Pepper got 13 and Andy 11. Much to his own delight Reff Ritter got
15, although one of his shots barely touched the bull’s-eye. Coulter
received but 9, much to his disgust. The other cadets ranged from 10 to
5,—the five being made by Mumps, who was almost afraid to discharge his
weapon.
“Wouldn’t Mumps make a fine soldier!” whispered Pepper to Jack. “If he
saw the enemy approaching he’d run for all he was worth.”
“If he didn’t get too frightened to move,” added the young major.
“He certainly is both a coward and a sneak.”
At the two-hundred yard range Jack made 14, while Pepper finished with
13, the same as before. The long-range shooting was not to take place
until after lunch.
“I don’t know whether to call it my unlucky thirteen or not,” said The
Imp. “It’s not so good as your score, but it’s better than some others.”
“It is certainly lucky,” answered Andy, who had made but 9 on the middle
range. “If you do so well on the long range you’ll be one of the
leaders.”
“Reff Ritter made 14,” put in Joe Nelson. “He and Jack and Bart Conners
are tied for first place so far.”
“Coulter had dropped behind, and Paxton’s score isn’t much better than
Mump’s,” came from Dale Blackmore.
“I’ve got two elevens,” said Fred Century. “I don’t think that’s so bad
for a fellow who hasn’t used a rifle for some years.”
Lunch was had in the shade of a number of trees growing at the edge of
the pasture. While the cadets were eating many of them stacked their
rifles and hung their belts and cartridge boxes on the weapons. Jack put
aside his sword and also the gun and cartridge holder he had been using.
There was a small brook nearby, fed by springs, and in this many of the
boys washed their hands and faces before eating.
While the meal was still in progress Gus Coulter motioned to Reff Ritter
and Nick Paxton, and the three drew away from the crowd and into some
bushes behind the trees.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Coulter, in a low voice. “I don’t know if we
can work it or not, but if we can—well, somebody will be surprised,
that’s all.”
“What’s your idea?” demanded Ritter.
“I was hanging around when Bob Grenwood, the quartermaster, was giving
out the ammunition for the shooting after lunch, on the three-hundred
yard range. I heard him say that he had brought along a case of blanks
by mistake. He said they looked a good deal like the cartridges that had
bullets in. Now if we could get hold of that case of blanks——”
“We can do that easily enough,” interrupted Nick Paxton. “The case is
right over yonder, on a rock.” And he pointed with his hand.
“I reckon I know what you mean,” said Reff Ritter, a wise look coming
into his face. “You mean for us to get the blanks and substitute them
for the regular cartridges some of the fellows intend to use.”
“Exactly. Can we do it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a great scheme. I’d like to put it up Ruddy’s
back—and up Ditmore’s back, too.” Ritter bit his lip in thought for a
moment. “Let’s see if we can get hold of that case of cartridges
anyway.”
With great care the plotters stole through the bushes and up to the rock
upon which rested the case containing the blank cartridges. All of the
other cadets were busy lunching and nobody noticed them as they hauled
the box out of sight.
“The cover is loose, anyway,” reported Ritter. “Guess I’ll take a few
out, just for luck,” and he appropriated about a dozen blanks.
“Take out the top layer,” suggested Coulter. “Then Grenwood won’t be so
apt to notice that the box has been trifled with.” And he and Paxton did
so. Then the cover was slid into place once more and the case was
restored to its original position. The blanks certainly looked like full
cartridges, being tipped with silvery paper.
“Now to do some substituting,” said Reff Ritter. “That’s the hardest
part of the job. Some of the fellows are hanging around those cartridge
belts and boxes.”
“Maybe we can get them to walk away,” suggested Coulter. “Get them
interested in something, you know.”
“I have it!” cried Ritter. “Nick, you walk down in the woods on the
other side of the brook and yell like mad. Say you saw a big snake, or
something. That will draw the crowd, and then Gus and I can get in our
work with the blank cartridges.”
“I’ll do it,” answered Nick Paxton, and hurried around through the
bushes and across the brook. He had been gone about five minutes when
the cadets at lunch, as well as Captain Putnam and the others, heard a
great yelling.
“Help! help! A snake! A snake!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed half a dozen, and then, as the yelling was
continued, a rush was made in the direction of the brook.
“Now is our chance,” said Ritter to Coulter, and then the pair stole out
of the bushes and in the direction of the stacked arms and the cartridge
belts and boxes.
“What’s the matter, Paxton?” demanded Captain Putnam, who was the first
to arrive at the spot from whence the cries for help emanated.
“A snake, sir!” answered the cadet glibly. “Ugh! He ran right between my
legs!” And Paxton pretended to shiver.
“A snake!” cried several.
“Where is it?”
“Why didn’t you kill it?”
“Yes, a snake, and—and I guess it was a rattler, too. It was about that
long,” and Nick Paxton held his hands as far apart as possible. “I
couldn’t kill it for I didn’t have a thing in my hand. I—er—I looked for
a rock, but the snake was too quick for me.”
The news that a snake was around—and that it might be a rattlesnake at
that—alarmed many of the cadets, and some of them recrossed the brook to
the open pasture. But others, and Captain Putnam, began a hunt for the
reptile, but, of course, without success.
“We may as well give up the search,” said the master of the Hall, after
a hunt of ten minutes. “If it was a rattlesnake it has managed to get
away.”
“What was you doing here, Paxton?” asked Andy.
“Why I—er—I came over to look for—er—for ferns,” stammered the youth who
had played the trick.
“Ferns? Didn’t know you were interested in ferns,” observed Joe Nelson,
who was something of a collector of plants himself.
“Oh, I do a little collecting now and then,” answered Paxton, and then
walked off, to escape being questioned further.
Half an hour later the noonday rest came to an end and the target
practice was again taken up. In the presence of his pupils Captain
Putnam took several shots at the long distance target, making a
bull’s-eye each time. Then he and the old army officer who had been
hired showed the boys how to fire to the best advantage.
Reff Ritter was one of the first to shoot at the three hundred yard
target, and much to his chagrin got only three fours—a total of 12.
Coulter got but 9, and Paxton 7.
When Jack stepped to the front with the rifle and cartridge box he had
been using Reff Ritter winked suggestively at Coulter and Paxton.
“Now we’ll see something rich!” whispered Coulter.
“Hush! you want to keep this to yourself,” warned the bully of the Hall.
“Now, Jack, a bull’s-eye!” said Pepper to his chum.
“Right in the middle of the eye, too,” added Andy.
“I’ll do what I can,” answered the young major, modestly.
With great care he took aim at the target and pulled the trigger. There
was a crack and a flash and then a moment of breathless waiting.
“Missed!”
“He didn’t hit the target even!”
The announcement was true, and the young major turned a trifle pale in
spite of his efforts to control himself.
“Don’t fire hastily, Major Ruddy,” said Captain Putnam kindly. “Draw a
bead directly on the center of the target.”
“I—I—thought I did,” stammered Jack.
Again the rifle was raised. Jack was now a bit nervous, yet he managed
to steady himself ere he took another shot. His aim was directly for the
center of the target.
“Another miss!”
“Why, Jack, what’s got over you?” cried Pepper, real distress showing in
his voice.
“I—I don’t know,“ faltered the youthful major.
“Don’t you feel well?” asked Stuffer. “Or is it your eyesight?”
“Yes, I feel well enough—and my eyesight is all right.”
“Maybe you had a blank cartridge,” cried Dale, suddenly.
This remark caused Jack to look at the remaining cartridges he
possessed. Captain Putnam insisted upon examining them also, for he,
too, was unwilling to believe that the young officer has made a total
miss of the two shots.
“These are certainly ball cartridges,” he said, as he looked them over.
“Nothing wrong there. You must have been careless in your aim, Major
Ruddy.”
“Captain Putnam, I did the very best I could,” pleaded Jack.
“Well, you have one more shot,” answered the master of the school.
As pale as a sheet the young major of the battalion walked to the front
once more and raised his rifle. For several seconds there was a
deathlike silence. Then came another crack and flash and a moment of
suspense.
“Hurrah! A bull’s-eye!”
“That’s the time you did it, Jack!”
“Why didn’t you do that before?”
With a long breath, Jack lowered his rifle and, turning faced the master
of the school:
“Captain Putnam,” he said in a low but firm tone. “I made a bull’s-eye
that time because there was a bullet in the cartridge. I am satisfied
now that my other two shots were blanks.