clear atmosphere. So it was that the askari, crouching in the shelter of a great upstanding dun-colored bowlder, was able to make the shot he would otherwise never have attempted.
For more than an hour, moving with infinite caution, he had made his way along the narrow, sand-covered bench, a quarter of a mile distant. It was the only spot in the immediate circle of hills from which a rifle bullet could reach the ledge occupied by the signalers without coming in range of the machine gun standing with legs wide aspraddle a few feet from the glass. His tarboosh was laid aside, his head wrapped in a strip of khaki, the same tint as the sandstone ledge along which he crawled. His khundaras, the heavy, hob-nailed Turkish marching boots, had been removed, and his feet wrapped in a pair of puttees. His buttons were blackened in the fire, every bit of metal about his rifle sandpapered, and covered with khaki paint. For the Turkish snipers left nothing undone to insure success when stalking their human prey.
Taking advantage of every projection in the dun-hued wall, crawling flat on his belly, lying for long periods absolutely motionless, he gained the nearest point, on the desert side of the valley. So skillful had been his approach, that the sharp eyes of the seated cockney, ceaselessly moving up and down the valley, narrowly scanning the face
