eep up on the flanks, concealing themselves
entirely, if possible.

Those in front got fired at several times as they scaled the rocks, but
to hit a small object shifting behind cover was far beyond the Arabs'
skill yet, though they _had_ made a vast improvement, and the risk of
advancing upon them in this way was not great. And when the two men had
got within a couple of hundred yards of the nearest Arab's lurking-
place, the officer called to them to halt, keep under cover, and fire if
they got a chance, or even if they didn't, his object being to keep them
amused while the flankers gained higher ground, and obtained fair shots
at them.

But one of those in front was Macintosh, for whom the wilful waste of a
bullet was almost an impossibility, frugality and marksmanship combining
to render the task painful to his feelings. He prided himself on his
shooting, and did not like even to appear to make a miss. Not able to
catch a glimpse of a foe where he was, he crept thirty yards higher, to
a nice flat stone just breast high, which commanded a much wider view.
But still he could see nothing to shoot at; so he exposed himself,
standing fairly up. _Pat_! Came a ball against a rock five yards on
his right; it would not do for Wimbledon that.

"Eh! They must practise a wee bit afore they challenge the Scottish
team!" murmured Macintosh, as he dropped on one knee behind the stone
over which he held his Martini-Henry at the ready, his eye being fixed
on the spot the shot came from.

The Arab probably thought that he had dropped his man, for he raised his
head and shoulders above the cover to look. That was the opportunity
Macintosh was waiting for. He had him covered in a moment, his rifle
was as steady and motionless as if it grew out of the rock itself. His
finger pressed the trigger, and the Arab he aimed at fell forwards, his
arms hanging over the rocky parapet, the Remington falling from his
hands.

When they examined his body afterwards, it was found that the bullet had
struck him in the exact centre of the forehead.

"I am sorry for the puir mon, but it was an unco' good shot!" was the
complacent remark of Macintosh, as he contemplated his handiwork. But
that was later on. At the time he fired he remained still, as ordered,
looking out for another chance.

The other man had taken what he was told more literally, and fired once
or twice at spots from which flashes had issued, without a hope of
hitting