cause of the alarm; for that rifle-shot cracking out
discordantly and awakening the echoes may be the signal for the dread
rush which would spell the beginning of the end. Once one line is
broken into we know instinctively that the confusion which would
follow would engulf us all. There is no confidence....

When you have time you may relieve his monotony by sniping.

In the early morning, the very early morning, is the time for this
work--say, roughly, between the hours of four and six, when the
soldier Chinaman beyond our lines is yawningly arousing himself from
his slumbers and squats blinking and inattentive before his morning
tea. Then if you are a natural hunter, are inclined to risk a good
deal, and something of a quick shot, you may have splendid chances
which teach you more than you could ever learn by months in front of
targets. Baron von R----, the cynical commander of the Russian
detachment, is the crack sniper of us all, because he has not a great
deal to do in the daytime, and, also, because beyond his lines of the
Russian Legation all is generally quiet with a curious and suggestive
quietness. At four in the morning R----, with his sailor's habits,
generally rises, shakes himself like a dog, lights his eternal Russian
cigarette, takes a few whiffs, and then sallies forth with a
Mannlicher carbine and a clip of five cartridges. His sailors are duly
warned to cover him if he has to retire in disorder, but so far he has
met with no mishap. Cautiously pushing out beyond his barricades, he
climbs a ruined wall, reaches the top and buries himself in the dust
in pleasant anticipation of what will follow.

Presently he is rewarded. A Chinese brave comes out into the open,
selects a corner, and sits down to smoke under cover of a barricade.
The Baron pushes his clip of cartridges deliberately into the
magazine, shoots one into the rifle barrel through the feed, and then
very cautiously and very slowly draws a steady bead on the man. I have
seen him at work. Five seconds may go by, perhaps even ten, for the
Baron allows himself only one shot in each case, and then bang! the
bullet speeds on its way, and the Chinaman rolls over bored through
and through. On a good day the bag may be two or three; on a bad day
the Russian commander returns with his five cartridges intact and a
persistent Russian shrug, for he never fires in vain, and there are
certain canons in this sport which he does not care to violate
lightly.