," said Bannister, "and there's fifteen shots in my
target." "Then three are mine," said I. "And two are mine," said Number
Fourteen. My shooting hadn't been very good, threes and fours, with only
one bull. Bannister had nine bullseyes, some of which I may have made;
but he was privileged to count all the best shots on his score.--I know
now a little more about target shooting than merely holding the gun.

Tomorrow we are to have more of this, although it is Sunday. The captain
has given us our evening to ourselves, and has asked us (_asked_, you
notice, for our Sunday afternoon is our own) to give him the time
tomorrow. He has the reputation, I am told, of always making his company
the best at rifle shooting. And if he works us, he is also working
himself.

This spell of cold weather which has followed our rains and is going to
make life quite different for us, has this evening driven everyone from
the company tent except myself, who sit here wrapped in a blanket to my
waist, finishing this letter. There has been a very pleasant little group
of us here, using each other's ink, interrupting our work to stop and
chat, showing each other our photographs. And perhaps I had better
explain why it is that I have appeared in two or three of the camp scenes
which I have already sent you. There is here an official photographer,
who sends out camera men to take us in all sorts of occupations--on the
skirmish line, on parade, cleaning our teeth or our rifles, marching,
skylarking. The pictures are all of the post card size, and in due course
are exhibited at the studio, where we go and inspect and buy. He is
always out of pictures of lieutenants, captains, the general, and other
popular subjects. But by perseverance and patient waiting one can
accumulate a record of his life here. Luck will put a fellow, on an
average, into a few groups a week, as you see in the ones I have sent
you.

I am shivering. The captain has promised us another blanket for tomorrow,
and there are rumors of an issue of overcoats. At this rate we shall need
them.

Love from

DICK.

PRIVATE GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER

Sunday evening the 17th.

DEAR MOTHER:--

Not a minute for writing all day, and yet I have been idle, idle, idle.
My own personal work began very early, for I got up about quarter of
five, took my shower-bath in the shi