And, suddenly, I was swept by that same almost irresistible desire to
be fighting myself that had come over me when I had seen the other
battery. If I could only play my part! If I could fire even a single
shot--if I, with my own hands, could do that much against those who
had killed my boy! And then, incredulously, I heard the words in my
ear. It was the major.
"Would you like to try a shot, Harry?" he asked me.
Would I? I stared at him. I couldn't believe my ears. It was as if he
had read my thoughts. I gasped out some sort of an affirmative. My
blood was boiling at the very thought, and the sweat started from my
pores.
"All right--nothing easier!" said the major, smiling. "I had an idea
you were wanting to take a hand, Harry."
He led me toward one of the guns, where the sweating crew was
especially active, as it seemed to me. They grinned at me as they saw
me coming.
"Here's old Harry Lauder come to take a crack at them himself," I
heard one man say to another.
"Good for him! The more the merrier!" answered his mate. He was an
American--would ye no know it from his speech?
I was trembling with eagerness. I wondered if my shot would tell. I
tried to visualize its consequences. It might strike some vital spot.
It might kill some man whose life was of the utmost value to the
enemy. It might--it might do anything! And I knew that my shot would
be watched; Normabell, sitting up there on the Pimple in his little
observatory, would watch it, as he did all of that battery's shots.
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