days when he was captain of “M” Company, was a rifleman of great
enthusiasm, and of no small skill. And when, on leaving for the West,
he resigned his commission, he gave to his old command, as memorials
of his interest in the most manly of all sports, two trophies--The
Kerwick Cup, and The Kerwick Medal. These were to be shot for in annual
competition: the medal, by the enlisted men; the cup, by the active and
past officers of the company. And for a number of years it had been the
custom to shoot both these matches on the forenoon of Christmas day.
“Are those old things still in existence?” asked the captain, with a
slight show of interest. “Really! I’d half forgotten them. But then,”
wearily, “I’ve forgotten most of the things in which I ever found any
pleasure.”
“Bah! you couldn’t forget the fun we’ve had together; no, not for the
life of you,” Pollard burst out impatiently. “Well, the old cup’s still
waiting to be won; and so’s the medal. Sergeant Harvey--he was a
corporal in your day, wasn’t he?--won the medal three times straight,
which nearly gave it to him for keeps. But he’s out of the service
now. The cup? Oh, I’m bidding high myself for the cup. My name’s been
engraved on it for three years, hand-running, and tomorrow may or may
not send it my way for the fourth and final holding.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” said Kerwick; “both the old things had to be
won four times consecutively in order to pass the title. I hope you’ll
pull out all right, Pollard; I’d be glad to know that the mug was
decorating your mantel. I’ll look for your score in the papers. Well,
as you say, it’s growing late. You’ve given me a very pleasant evening,
and I’d like to tell you how it has brought back old times, being up
here with you in this way--but perhaps I needn’t. Good night.” And with
this he rose, buttoned his thin black coat closely about him, and held
out his hand.
In an instant Pollard was upon his feet. “What the deuce are you
thinking of doing?” he demanded, placing himself by a sudden movement
between Kerwick and the door. “Going to leave me, eh? Not much! You’re
my prisoner, sir; sit down.”
For a minute the captain faced Pollard, with an appealing look upon his
face; but he ended by yielding to the stronger will, and obediently
dropped back into his chair. The major came over to the fireplace, and
took up his position upon the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. His
teeth were firmly set upon the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, and as
he spoke he punctuated his sentences with an occasional short puff of
smoke. “Now pay attention to what I’m saying to you,” he began, looking
down kindly upon the man before him, “because it has ‘Official’ stamped
all over it, and it’s not to be disputed about, nor argued over.”
“Six years ago,” said Pollard, letting himself drop back until his
broad shoulders rested comfortably against the high mantel-shelf, “you
and I were good friends. As I recall it, we used to find life rather
a pleasant sort of thing. But, not content with leaving well enough
alone, you had to send yourself chasing away after the pot of gold at
the foot of the western rainbow. Well, luck didn’t run your way: either
you didn’t hold openers, or else the pot was buried too deeply to be
easily got at--and here you are, back again, after having made a most
praiseworthy attempt at going to the devil.”
“Is this a sermon?” asked Kerwick, at this point in Pollard’s discourse.
“No, it isn’t,” said the major earnestly; “at least, it’s not meant
for one. But what I’m getting at is this: you’ve got to borrow a leaf
from the politician’s book, and ‘put yourself into the hands of your
friends.’ Now, we can’t map out a whole career for you at a single
sitting; so we’ll simply settle the programme for the next forty-eight
hours, and call it a night’s work at that.”
“Thanks!” said Kerwick dryly. “To tell the truth, I _don’t_ feel quite
up to arranging my future at the present moment.”
“No?” said Pollard. “Neither do I. But you may consider this much of it
as having been already arranged: tomorrow we go out with the company,
shoot in the cup match--you may win your own mug, if you’re lucky
enough--then we come back to town, dine together, and wind up the day
with an old-fashioned evening of yarning and smoking, up here in these
rooms; day after tomorrow, we consider what’s to be done with you;
after that, we begin to do it. See?”
“I wish I could, Polly,” began Kerwick, “but--”
“Oh, about clothes and things,” broke in the major; “I can fit you out
to a button. We go out in fatigue, you know, tomorrow: well, when I got
my last promotion, I was so tickled over it that I treated myself to a
whole new outfit, so I’ve my captain’s uniform still on hand, and it’ll
fit you like wall paper unless you’ve changed several sizes since last
we ran together.”
The clock upon the mantel began to strike. From without, hushed and
mellowed by the thickly falling snow, came the sound of the chimes in
old St. Luke’s.
“Hello! it’s morning,” said Pollard, as the clock’s deep-toned gong
told off the last stroke of midnight. “Merry Christmas, Kerwick! _Merry
Christmas, old man!_ Got ahead of you that time, didn’t I? And now
we must crawl under the blankets, for in ten hours from now we’ll be
bullseye chasing.”
Kerwick slowly rose from his chair. He placed both hands on Pollard’s
shoulders, looked him full in the face, and said, “God bless you,
Polly!” And then, the least bit huskily, he added, “Perhaps you’re
right, after all. Perhaps it’s _not_ too late.”
Pollard saw his old commander safely stowed away in the little box of
a room that he was pleased to call his guest chamber, and then went
about his preparations for the coming match. First, he put in order
his rifle, and filled his thimble belt with half a hundred cartridges
of his own careful loading. Then, after laying out his own uniform,
he hunted through closet and wardrobe until he had got together a
captain’s full outfit, which he placed upon a chair, just outside the
door of Kerwick’s room.
For a moment he stood there listening. From within came the sound of
deep, regular breathing. He softly turned the knob, and stepped into
the room. Kerwick lay sound asleep, with his face turned towards the
wall. Feeling like a full-fledged thief, Pollard laid hands upon the
waistcoat which hung at the head of the bed, and then stealthily crept
out of the room.
There was no watch in the waistcoat. Pollard opened a drawer of
his desk, took out a plain silver timepiece--a relic of his school
days--wound and set it, and slipped it into its proper pocket. He
explored the other pockets. In one he found a ragged two dollar bill;
in another, a stub of pencil and a card of common matches. That was all.
Tossing the vulgar brimstone matches into the fire, he went again to
his desk and rummaged about until he found a silver match box--one
of many that had come to him on birthdays and other times of the
sort--which he filled with parlor matches and placed in the lower,
left-hand pocket. Then he drew out a roll of bills, picked out three
crisp fives, folded them up, once lengthwise and once across, with
Kerwick’s poor, tattered banknote, and tucked the money snugly into the
lower, right-hand pocket. And then he stole back into the captain’s
room, and hung the garment in the place in which he had found it.
“Poor devil! He’s utterly done up,” he said to himself, as he left
the room, after a last glance at his sleeping guest. “And no wonder!
Well, there’s another Santa Claus tradition gone wrong! I haven’t put
anything into the old chap’s socks. Never mind. The chances are that
they’re too full of holes to make the filling of ’em a possibility.”
He went over to the mantel, filled a leather cigar case with
_Perfectos_, and stowed it away in the inner pocket of the fatigue
jacket which lay ready for Kerwick to don in the morning. This done,
he stood thinking for a moment before the fire, and then, beginning
rapidly to throw off his clothes, he muttered, “Yes, that will work.
It’s _sure_ to!” With which truly oracular remark he started off to bed.
Christmas day came in under a clear sky. Pollard rose at an early hour,
went to the window for a hasty glance at the snowy world outside, and
then rapped noisily at his friend’s door, singing out cheerily, “Hi!
Kerwick. Time you were getting up.” And to hasten matters, he whistled
the bars of _Reveille_, the lively call which, many a time, had brought
them tumbling out from their blankets when under canvas with the Old
Regiment.
Kerwick’s night of untroubled sleep had worked wonders. After a dip
into the bath, and ten minutes’ careful work with the razor, he looked
another man. And when at last, arrayed in captain’s uniform, he had
inspected himself in Pollard’s mirror, he faced about, threw back his
shoulders, and said with a healthy ring in his voice, “Polly, my son,
I’ve been pretty far down, but I’ll live up to my old rank again--if
only for today.”
“Did anybody ever see such a fit?” asked Pollard, gazing admiringly at
the natty appearance of his friend. “Talk about being melted and poured
into clothes! Why, that blouse looks as if it had been frescoed on you.”
Kerwick passed his hand over the breast of the snugly clinging blouse,
and became aware, in doing it, that something lay hidden beneath its
surface. Unbuttoning it, he drew out the cigar case. “Ah, that was
thoughtful of you,” said he. “Thank you, Polly.”
Struck by a sudden thought, he ran his fingers into the pocket where
the lone bill had been. The modest wad of money came into view. He
colored slightly, and then tried a second pocket, whereby he discovered
the little silver watch, which looked him boldly in the face, and
promptly ticked out its holiday greeting. In its turn, too, the match
box came to light. And all the while Pollard stood by, surveying the
proceedings with a grin of satisfied approval.
“The match box and the matches in it,” explained the major, “are from
Santa Claus. The same applies to the cigar case and its contents. The
watch and those few bills are a loan from me; you’ll return ’em when
it’s most convenient. And now we must be moving.”
The two ex-captains breakfasted together, and then hastened down to the
station for the early morning train. With a little group of other past
officers they were standing upon the platform, when the shrill squeak
of a fife and the lively rattle of a drum came clearly on the crisp
December air, to warn them that the boys were drawing near. And in a
moment, to the tune of _The Bold MacIntyre_, the company came swinging
in through the wide doorway and down the long platform, making the
vaulted roof of the trainhouse resound with the steady tramp, tramp,
tramp of the marching column.
Three officers, white-gloved and trim; fifty men, muffled in the
blue great-coats of the service; fifty rifles sloping at the trail;
belts black and glossy, buttons and brasses glittering like polished
mirrors--it all went to make as bright a picture of the pomp and
circumstance of volunteering as one could wish to see.
The train slowly pulled out from the long station, bearing the jolly
little army towards its peaceful battle ground. Pollard settled Kerwick
safely at the forward end of the car, with Colonel Elliott, and then
industriously began the final development of the grand idea which
had taken shape in his brain the night before. One after another he
button-holed the dozen or so officers in the car, attacking each one
somewhat after this fashion:
“Here’s old Kerwick back again. Seems good to see him, doesn’t it?
Blamed good fellow, if ever there was one! Well, he’s been having a
horrible run of luck lately. I happen to know that he’s hard pushed,
and is worrying over it. But he’s clear sand, grit ’way through to the
vertebræ--and none of us ever will find out from _him_ how he’s been
getting it in the neck. Now, I want to fix up a sort of benefit for
him. You’ll help me out in it? Of course; knew you would. But we can’t
chip in to _give_ him anything. He’s too infernally proud: wouldn’t
have it, you know.
“Here’s what I’d propose: we’ll make up a sweepstake in the cup match,
throw in five dollars apiece, and then let Kerwick win the whole
business. None of us will be killed by dropping a fiver, but the
aggregate pot will give the old chap quite a lift. He used to shoot
like a demon once. Don’t know if he can now--but we can make sure that
we shoot worse than he does, anyway. We’ll have to do all this quietly,
on account of the men; ’twouldn’t do to have ’em get the idea that
we’re gambling. Grand strategy on a small scale, isn’t it?” And with
this, Pollard would release that particular victim, and start off in
search of yet another recruit for his enterprise.
The annual shoot of “M” Company certainly was a notable success. The
Kerwick Medal was won on the phenomenal score of thirty-three points,
in seven shots; and no less than sixteen of the fifty men competing for
it managed to roll up an average of centers, or better. But when it
came to the struggle for the Kerwick _Cup_--well, that was a different
matter!
Pollard quietly had collected the entries for the sweepstake, and had
turned over the money to Colonel Elliott, who--not being a past officer
of the company--could not shoot for the cup. He had some difficulty
in getting Kerwick into the match, but finally succeeded in persuading
him that it would look odd if he, with his past reputation as a rifle
sharp, should persist in staying out. There were twelve competitors in
all, and consequently the colonel found himself the custodian of sixty
dollars’ worth of the Government’s paper.
The match began. Colonel Hamilton, of the retired list, and Captain
Bromstead, of the active company, made the first pair. Bromstead has
rather educated ideas about the handling of a rifle, and Colonel
Hamilton seldom scatters much lead outside the four ring; but in this
particular match the shooting of both was something fearful to behold
and wonderful to reflect upon. For the captain’s seven shots netted
just twenty-one points, while Hamilton, after piling up an even twenty,
fell back from the firing point in well feigned disgust.
And so it went, as pair after pair took their turn at the targets,
until--amid a storm of good-natured chaffing--all except Kerwick and
Pollard had fired. Up to this point, the top score was twenty-five.
It had been made by little Poore, junior lieutenant of the company,
who afterwards apologized to Pollard for doing such brilliant work,
explaining that, by way of experiment, he had closed both eyes when
firing his last shot, by which means--to his utter astonishment and no
small chagrin--he had plumped his bullet dead into the center of the
bullseye.
“Major Pollard and Captain Kerwick!” called the scorer. Kerwick stepped
quickly to his place, and the major slowly followed.
“After you, Pollard,” said Kerwick, with a nod towards the targets, to
signify that the major should lead off.
“No, no, Captain,” said Pollard; “after you. I’m defending the cup, you
know, and it’s my privilege to see what I must shoot against.”
Kerwick tested the pull of his piece, looked keenly at the sights, gave
just the slightest touch to the wind-gauge, slipped in a cartridge,
and then leveled the long barrel upon the target. For three seconds
he stood motionless, and then he fired. It was a bullseye. The group
behind him sent up a murmur of applause, which was promptly checked by
Colonel Elliott. Pollard threw his piece easily to his shoulder, aimed
quickly fired, and brought up a bullseye in his turn.
Kerwick’s second shot was a close four; Pollard’s, another bullseye.
On the third attempt, Kerwick again found the black, while the
major’s shot was a very chilly center. After the sixth round had
been completed, the captain stepped back and glanced at the scorer’s
blackboard. The story then read:
_Captain Kerwick_ 5, 4, 5, 4, 4, 5
_Major Pollard_ 5, 5, 4, 4, 4, 5
He went back to his place, and passed his hand across his eyes, as if
to drive away the dazzling glare of the sun upon the snow. Barring
a bright red spot on either cheek, his face was ashen pale. Those
who were watching him closely noticed that his knees were slightly
trembling.
Among the officers in rear of the firing point there was suppressed
excitement. Little Poore drew Bromstead aside, and in a whisper
confided to him his opinion that Pollard was a combination of
pirate, bunco-steerer, and all-’round brute. He also hinted at the
advisability of jamming a handful of snow down the back of Pollard’s
neck, in order to disarrange his nervous system. Colonel Elliott, with
one hand deep in his trousers’ pocket, savagely clutching the roll of
bills confided to his keeping, stood blackly scowling at Pollard, and
endeavoring to catch his eye. But the major calmly went on with the
operation of blowing through the barrel of his rifle, and never once
turned to see what might be going on behind him.
Kerwick raised his rifle, and aimed. But the barrel perceptibly
wavered, and after an instant of hesitation he lowered the piece. He
drew a long breath, aimed again, and then--_then_, with a convulsive
jerk, he pulled the trigger.
At the crack of the rifle a little spray of glittering snow spurted
up into the sunlight, just beyond the right edge of the target. The
strain had been too heavy. Kerwick’s last and all important shot had
gone wide! A small, red flag was raised before the face of the target.
Slowly, mockingly it was waved to and fro. “Miss,” said the scorer
softly, as he chalked down the fatal zero.
Pollard glanced quickly at the unlucky captain, and then settled into
position for firing. Kerwick laughed weakly, and faced about, to walk
away. But suddenly he stopped, turned from the sympathizing group
behind the firing point, and fixed his gaze upon the targets; for he
had become aware that the muscles around his mouth were twitching, and
that--because of the glaring snow, perhaps--his eyes were being blinded
by a hot gush of tears.
There came a sharp report. Pollard’s last bullet was speeding its way
across the two hundred yards of snow. And in a moment the white disk
crept into sight--_but not on Pollard’s target_! Bullseye though the
shot was, it could be scored only as a miss.
“Da’--thunderation!” yelled Pollard, giving an exhibition of realistic
acting sufficiently fine to have made Salvini faint dead away, could
he have seen it. “Oh, glory! I’m on the wrong target--and there goes
the blooming old cup! Kerwick’s score outranks. What luck! Oh, what
_infernal_ luck!”
There was a roar from the crowd. The knot of excited watchers did not
need to be reminded of the rule that, in the case of an absolute tie,
the winning score is the one in which the ranking shots lie nearest
towards the end. Half the officers sought relief for their feelings by
thumping Kerwick upon the back. The other half, among whom little Poore
was more than conspicuous, piled themselves upon Pollard. And it was a
long time before anybody heard Kerwick protesting that, whatever else
he might have won, the cup was Pollard’s, because of a clause in the
half-forgotten deed of gift by which the donor was barred from winning
his own trophy.
“Why did I do it?” said Pollard later, when reproached for the
brilliancy of his shooting in the earlier part of his score. “Well, you
see, I just had to. Old Kerwick wouldn’t have half enjoyed his winning
if he hadn’t been pushed for the place. Besides, if I’d shot much
worse, that child Poore would have gobbled the cup, which never would
have done. For I wanted that myself. But I felt like a beast, just the
same, when poor old Kerwick broke down, after he’d started a lead mine
in the snow with that last bullet of his.”
OFFICIALLY REPORTED.
This tale already has been in print. Browning, of the _Herald_,
Rodman, of the _Globe_, and Major Larry, of The Third, were jointly
responsible for its first appearance. But inasmuch as it was printed in
the papers, and since things that see the light in that way speedily
are forgotten--unless, to the confusion of those who first perpetrated
them, they happen to be available for resurrection in deadly parallel
columns--it has seemed good to rescue it from the oblivion of last
year’s dusty files.
Major Larry, it will be remembered, is the young gentleman whom Captain
Tom Stearns, of _A_ Company, once upon a time appointed “Company Kid”
of his command. How Larry afterwards demonstrated the wisdom of the
captain’s selection, and how he won promotion to the position for
which his soul yearned--the post of honor at the front of the big
bass-drum--already has been told. In fact, since Major Larry numbers
his friends and acquaintances by the hundred, he needs no farther
introduction.
It was two weeks after the regimental autumn manœuvres, and twenty
minutes after _recall_ had sounded on a certain drill night. The
adjutant threaded his way along the swarming corridors of the big
armory, climbed a flight of oaken stairs, and turned in at the doorway
of _A’s_ quarters. In the captain’s room he found Major Larry,
industriously plying a whisk broom upon a braided fatigue-jacket.
“Where’s Stearns?” demanded the adjutant, halting upon the threshold.
Larry promptly brought his heels together, tucked the jacket under his
left arm, and smartly raised his right hand, brush and all, to his
forehead. “Cap’n Stearns?” said he. “He’s flew.”
“Humph!” grunted the adjutant. “The captain’s _flew_, eh? And his
report’s ten days over-due!”
“W’at’s de report dat’s missin’?” anxiously inquired Larry.
The adjutant turned and looked down upon his questioner. “Oh, it’s not
a matter of life-and-death importance,” said he; “only Captain Stearns
ought to have sent in a written account of his company’s part in the
manœuvres, and I should have had it long ago.”
“I was wid _A_,” said the boy. “W’at’s de matter wid _me_ reportin’?”
The adjutant paused and considered. Major Larry is noted for keen
observation of men and things, and his command of words, such as they
are, is a source of joy to all at headquarters. The adjutant decided
accordingly. “What’s the matter indeed!” said he, starting towards the
colonel’s room. “Come along with me, Major. We’ll make this report a
verbal one.”
In the colonel’s private office a coal fire was glowing in the open
grate. Before it sat the chief, with Browning and Rodman, the two “war
correspondents,” who had dropped in to see if anything of interest in
regimental matters was about to happen. Everybody in the service knows
Browning and Rodman, and knows them, moreover, collectively; because,
as a rule, where one of them is found, there also is to be found
the other. What would the annual tour of camp duty be without their
presence? And how, but for them, would the great and careless Public be
kept from forgetting the very existence of that modest institution, the
volunteer service?
“Did you get that report?” asked the colonel, looking up as the
adjutant and Major Larry entered.
“No, sir,” replied the adjutant. “Captain Stearns is compelled to ask
for an extension of time. But I’ve done the next best thing. Here’s
Major Larry Callahan, the captain’s chief of staff, who has kindly
volunteered to report in person on the operations of _A_ Company.”
At the adjutant’s opening words the colonel frowned, but, as he
finished, the frown gave way to a very broad smile. Larry neither
frowned nor smiled, but stood attention, awaiting orders. He was very
much in earnest, feeling that his patron, the delinquent captain, was
in a bad box, from which it was his duty to extricate him.
Rodman leaned over towards his fellow journalist, and said something in
a low tone, at the same time placing a coin upon his knee, concealed
by his outspread hand.
“Heads,” said Browning, nodding assent to the proposition that had been
made.
“Guess again!” said Rodman, uncovering the silver piece; “it’s tails.
This is _my_ story.” And he quietly drew a note-book from his pocket.
“Well?” said the colonel, turning towards Larry.
“It’s be’n dis way wid de cap’n,” said the boy; “he isn’t had much time
since de battle, an’ to-night he was called out o’ town sudden. I jus’
got a cab for’m to hustle to de ten-t’irty express. But I c’n report
w’at A done, if youse want it right off, jus’ as well’s de cap’n could.
’Cause I was dere, see? An’ I didn’t have nuttin’ on me mind ’ceptin’
to catch on to w’at was happenin’. It was diffrunt wid de cap’n: he was
busy wid bot’ han’s, tryin’ to keep de boys from blowin’ de heads off’n
’emselves.”
“I see,” said the colonel. “But you should have been with the drum
corps, Larry. What brought you in with _A_?”