As the master already suffers poor digestion, brought on by overwrought nerves, to rile him up is not so hard. The gunners alone would suffice, but around them on all sides is a vast gallery, doubling as reinforcements. The pestle meets the dumpling with a crack, and immediately comes a chorus of whoops and hollers, along with rounds of applause and shouts of encouragement. "What a hit!" "That'll show 'em!" "Show 'em who's boss!" "Had enough?" As if this weren't enough, every third shot comes tumbling onto the master's grounds. This is the necessary culmination of their grand assault. The manufacture of dumdum projectiles is no longer confined to their namesake arsenal, but nevertheless, the cost is high. Even in times of war, there's no assurance of steady supply. The typical company of gunners has but one, or at most two. Each time the ring of the pestle sends this prized shell flying, it has to be retrieved. To this end, they've formed a separate "fetching" squad and tasked them accordingly. A shell falling on friendly ground is easily fetched, but not so when it lands in tall grass or sails onto private property. One might expect, then, that to spare their efforts they'd launch with an eye toward easy retrieval. In fact, they do just the opposite. This is no sport. It's belligerence. They purposely target the master's grounds. And having hit their mark, they've no option but to rescue and recover. The easiest method of retrieval is to hop the bamboo fence. And once they've hopped the fence, the master is compelled to rant and rave and chase them off. To do any less would constitute surrender. In return for his pains, the hair on his head grows thinner each day.