"_At them two, weemen_"--officers' wives, probably--"_proceeding from
left tae right across the square, at five hundred yairds_"

--they are really about fifteen yards away, covered with
confusion--"_five roonds, fire!_"

But as yet they have discharged no shots from their rifles. It has all
been make-believe, with dummy cartridges, and fictitious ranges, and
snapping triggers. To be quite frank, they are getting just a little
tired of musketry training--forgetting for the moment that a soldier
who cannot use his rifle is merely an expense to his country and a
free gift to the enemy. But the sight of Bobby Little's art gallery
cheers them up. They contemplate the picture with childlike interest.
It resembles nothing so much as one of those pleasing but imaginative
posters by the display of which our Railway Companies seek to attract
the tourist to the less remunerative portions of their systems.

"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"

Thus Private Mucklewame. A pundit in the rear rank answers him.

"Yon's Gairmany."

"Gairmany ma auntie!" retorts Mucklewame. "There's no chumney-stalks
in Gairmany."

"Maybe no; but there's wundmulls. See the wundmull there--on yon wee
knowe!"

"There a pit-held!" exclaims another voice. This homely spectacle is