Every summer the little town of Bisley, Surrey, has its day in the news when hawk-eyed, steady-handed sharpshooters assemble from all over the world to shoot for the King's prize. The famed ranges of the National Rifle Association are at Bisley, and Bisley is to shooting what St. Andrews is to golf.*
Deadshots who annually arrive at Bisley station with their gun cases, their wind gauges, their range finders, telescopes and tallow candles (for blackening front sights) never notice Bisley village, never notice Bisley church, and they have positively ignored Dr. John...
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