He couldnt have known that I meant to pick him out for my next shot, the young officer said to himself, and he couldnt have been hurt, so hes up to the same sort of game as that fellow old Lennox brought down.
He turned his head sharply, not on account of a bullet coming too close, but to learn the effect of another shot from his companion.
Hit or miss? he said gruffly.
Hit, was the laconic reply.
Dickenson had only glanced round, and then fixed his eyes once more upon the little clump of bushes he had before noted.
Thats the place hell show at for certain, he muttered, and getting the sight of his rifle well upon one particular spot where a big grey stone reared itself up level with the tops of the bushes, he waited for quite five minutes, which were well dotted with leaden points.
Ha! I was right, said Dickenson to himself, for all at once he caught a glimpse of the barrel of a rifle reared up and then lowered down over the top of the stone in his
direction.
The distance was great, and the rifle-barrel looked no larger than a metal ramrod, but the clearness of the South African air showed it plainly enough; and hugging himself closer together, the young officer laid his cheek close to the stock of his piece, closed his left eye, and glanced along the barrel, waiting for the opportunity he felt sure must come.
The excitement of the moment made his heart beat fast, and his eyes glittered as he gazed; but there was nothing to see now save a beautiful green clump of thorn bush, with the great grey granite block in its midst.
I make it two hundred and fifty yards good, he said to himself, and he raised the sight of his rifle. I ought to be able to hit a steady mark at that distance when cool, and I feel as cool now as a cucumber. Theyre grand shots these chaps, and if he can make out my face hell bring me down as sure as a gun; and if he does theres new mourning to be got at home, and a lot of crying, and the old lady and the girls breaking their hearts about stupid old me, so I must have first shot if I can get it. Very stupid of them at home. They dont know what a fool every one thinks me out here. Nice, though, all the same, and I like em well, love em, say love em all too well to let them go breaking their hearts about me; so here goes, Mr Boer. But he doesnt go. He must be waiting up there, because I saw his gun. What a while he is! Or is it Im impatient and think the time long? Couldnt have been mistaken. Id speak to old Lennox, but if I do its a chance if the enemy dont show and get first shot.
Dickenson seemed to cease thinking for a few moments, and lay listening to the rattle of the Boers guns across the river and the spattering echo-like sounds of the bullets striking around. Then he began to think again, with his eyes fixed upon the top of the grey stone in the distance, and noting now that a clearly-cut shadow from a long strand was cast right across the top of the stone.
Thats just in front of where his face ought to be when he takes aim, thought the young officer. Aim at me, to put them at home in mourning and make them go to church the next Sunday and hear our old vicar say a kind word for our gallant young friend who died out in the Transvaal. But he shant if I can help it. Nasty, sneaking, cowardly beggar! I never did him any harm, and I dont want to do him any harm; but as he means to shoot me dead, why, common-sense seems to say, Have first shot at him, Bobby, old chap, if you can, for youre only twenty, and as the days of man are seventy years all told, hes going to do you out of fifty, which would be a dead robbery, of course; and in this case a dead robbery means murder into the bargain.
Bob Dickensons musings stopped short for a few moments while he looked in vain for some sign of his enemy. Then he went on again in a desultory way, paying no heed to the bullets flying over and around him, and for the time being forgetting all about his comrade, who kept on firing whenever he had an opportunity.
What a pity it seems! he mused. Birds flitting about, bees and butterflies sipping the honey out of the flowers, which are very beautiful; so is this gully, with the sparkling water and ferns and things all a-growing and a-blowing, as they say. Why, I should like nothing better than loafing round here enjoying myself by looking about and doing no harm to anything. I wouldnt even catch the fish if I wasnt so hungry; and yet, here I am with a magazine-rifle trying to shoot a Boer dead.
Humph! yes, he continued after a short pause; but only so that he shant shoot me dead. This is being a soldier, this is. Why was I such a fool as to be one? The uniform and the band and the idea of being brave and all that sort of thing, I suppose. Rather different out here. No band; no uniform but this dirt-coloured khaki; no bed to sleep on; no cover but the tent; roasting by day, freezing by night: hardly a chance to wash ones self, and nothing to eat; and no one to look at you but the Boers, and when they come to see what the soldiers of the Queen are like they send word they are there with bullets, bless em! Well, I suppose its all right. We must have soldiers, and I wanted to be one, and now I am one there does seem to be something more than the show in doing ones duty bravely, as they call it.