'I--I was looking for a friend hereabouts.'

'Fat lot of friend you'll find at the head of _this_ street!' snarled
the rifleman, and jerked his thumb towards the corpse. 'That makes
the third already this morning. These Johnnies ain't no sense of
honour left--firing on outposts as you may call it.'

'Where are they firing from?'

'No "they" about it. You saw that cottage--or didn't you?--right
above there, under the wall; the place with one window in it?
There's a devil behind it somewheres; he fires from the back of the
room, and what's more, he never misses his man. You have Nick's own
luck--the pretty target you made, too; that is unless, like some that
call themselves Englishmen and ought to know better, he's a special
spite on the Rifles.'

The sergeant paid no heed to the sneer. He was beginning to think.

'How long has this been going on?' he asked.

'Only since daylight. There was a child up yonder, last night; but
it stands to reason a child can't be doing this. He never misses, I
tell you. Oh, you had luck, just now!'

'I wonder,' said Sergeant Wilkes, musing. 'I'll try it again,
anyway.' And while the rifleman gasped he stepped out boldly into
the road.