"One of you go two hundred yards along the road, and form an advance-post,
so to speak. Challenge him the minute he's within ear-shot, and shoot
him if he won't halt. If he halts, pass him along to Number Two.
Number Two, pass him along to the guardroom, where I'll deal with
him! Which of you's Number One? Number One, then--forward--
quick--march!"

The sentry trudged off in one direction, and Bill Brown in another.
The sentry concealed itself behind a rock that flanked the road,
and Brown spent the next few minutes in making the guard "port arms,"
and carefully inspecting their weapons with the aid of a lantern.
He had already inspected there once since supper, but he knew the
effect that another inspection would be likely to produce. Nothing
goes further toward making men careful and ready at the word than
incessant and unexpected but quite quietly performed inspection of
minutest details.

He produced the effect of setting the men on the qui vive without
alarming them.

Suddenly, the farthest advanced sentry's challenge rang out.

"Frie-e-e-e-nd!" came the answer, in nasal, high-pitched wail, but
the galloping continued.

"Halt, I tell you!" A breech-bolt clicked, and then another one.
They were little sounds, but they were different, and the guard could
hear them plainly. The galloping horse came on.

"Cra-a-a-a-ack!" went the sentry's rifle, and the flash of it spurted