erhaps.... _Down!_ Mark north! Take the
leader, you."

From out the mist, dead ahead, just skimming the surface of the water,
and coming straight at us, like a mathematically arranged triangle of
cannon balls, taking definite form and magnitude oh, so swiftly,
unbelievably swift; coming--yes--directly overhead, as before, the
pulsing, echoing din in our ears.

"_Ready!_"

Again the four reports that sounded as two; and they are past; no
longer a regular formation, but scattered erratically by the alarm,
individual vanishing and dissolving dots, speedily swallowed up by the
gray of the mist.

But this time there was no echoing splash, as a hurtling body struck
the water, nor tense spoken word of congratulation following--nothing.
For ten seconds, which is long under the circumstances, not a word is
spoken; only the metallic click of opened locks, as they spring home,
breaks the steady purr of the wind; then:

"Safe from me when they come like that," admits Sandford, "unless I
have a ten-foot pole, and they happen to run into it."

"And from me," I echo.

"Lord, how they come! They just simply materialize before your eyes,
like an impression by flash-light; and then--vanish."

"Yes."

"Seems as though they'd take fire, like meteorites, from the
friction."

"I'm looking for the smoke, myself--_Down!_ Mark your left!"

_Pat!_ _pat!_ _pat!_ Swifter than spoken words, swift as the strokes
of an electric fan, the wings beat the air. _Swish-h-h!_ long-drawn
out, _crescendo_, yet _crescendo_ as, razor-keen, irresistible, those
same invisible wings cut it through and through; while, answering the
primitive challenge, responding to the stimulus of the game, the hot
tingle of excitement speeds up and down our spines. Nearer, nearer,
mounting, perpendicular--

The third battalion of that seemingly inexhaustible army has come and
gone; and, mechanically, we are thrusting fresh shells into the
faintly smoking gun-barrels.

"Got mine that time, both of them." No repression, nor polite
self-abnegation from Sandford this time; just plain, frank exultation
and pride of achievement. "Led 'em a yard--two, maybe; but I got 'em
clean. Did you see?"

"Yes, good work," I echo in the formula.

"Canvas-backs, every one; nothing but canvas-backs." Again the old
marvel, the old palliation that makes the seemingly unequal game fair.
"But, Lord, how they do go; how anything alive can go so--and be
stopped!"

"Mark to windward!