The rifle ranges were surrounded by a belt
of trees, outside of which was an unclimbable fence guarded by two
sentries, one on either side. It seemed impossible to get into or even
near the range without considerable difficulty.
One day I sauntered carelessly down in the direction of the range at
a point far away from the entrance gate, and here I lay down on the
grass as if to sleep, but in reality to listen and take the rate of
the shooting from the sound and also the amount of success by the
sound of the hits on the iron target. Having gained a certain amount
of data in this way, I approached more nearly in the hope of getting a
sight of what was going on.
While the sentry's back was turned I made a rush for the fence, and
though I could not get over, I found a loose plank through which I was
able to get a good view of what was happening.
While engaged at this, to my horror the sentry suddenly turned on his
tracks and came back towards me. But I had been prepared against such
eventualities, and jamming back the plank into its place, I produced
from my pocket a bottle of brandy which I had brought for the purpose.
Half of it had been already sprinkled over my clothes, so that when
the man approached he found me in a state of drunkenness, smelling
vilely of spirits, and profuse in my offers to him to share the
bottle.
[Illustration: _The above sketch shows the writer in a tight place.
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