"I'm comin'," said Corporal Slane briefly; "you've done a bad
day's work, Sim. Come out 'ere an' come back with me."

"Come to," laughed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his
thumb. "Not before I've settled you an' Jerry Blazes."

The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the parade-
ground, a rifle under him. Some of the less cautious men in the
distance shouted: "Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane!"

"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry
Blazes' 'ead in, and shoot you after."

"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you
daren't 'it a man on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out
o' that with your fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloom-
in' dog-shooter!"

"I dare."

"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie.
See there!" Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril
of his life. "Come on, now!"

The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the
Corporal in his white clothes offered a perfect mark.

"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot
missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and
rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within striking