The scene is a School of Instruction at the back of the Western Front
set in a valley of green meadows bordered by files of plumy poplars,
and threaded through by a silver ribbon of water.
On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells of a bayonet
class, practising frightfulness further down the valley; also the
staccato chatter of Lewis guns punching holes in the near hillside.
In the centre of one meadow is a turf _manège_. In the centre of the
_manège_ stands the villain of the piece, the Riding-Master.
He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jackboots, vicious
spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long
whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like Diavolo,
the lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of
fire.
His victims, a dozen infantry officers, circle slowly round the
_manège_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came
out with Wellington and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink
at the Riding-Master and he winks back at them.
The audience consists of an ancient Gaul in picturesque blue pants,
whose _mètier_ is to totter round the meadows brushing flies off a
piebald cow; the School Padre, who keeps at long range so that he may
see the sport without hearing the language, and ten little _gamins_,
who have been splashing in the silver stream and are now sitting
drying on the bank like ten little toads.
They come every afternoon, for never have they seen such fun, never
since the great days before the War when the circus with the boxing
kangaroo and the educated porks came to town.
Suddenly the Riding-Master clears his throat. At the sound thereof
the horses cock their ears and their riders grab handfulls of leather
and hair.
_R.-M._ "Now, gentlemen, mind the word. Gently away--tra-a-a-at."
The horses break into a slow jog-trot and the cavaliers into a cold
perspiration. The ten little gamins cheer delightedly.
_R.-M._ "Sit down, sit up, 'ollow yer backs, keep the hands down,
backs foremost, even pace. Number Two, Sir, 'ollow yer back; don't
sit 'unched up like you'd over-ate yourself. Number Seven, don't
throw yerself about in that drunken manner, you'll miss the saddle
altogether presently, coming down--can't expect the 'orse to catch
you every time.
"Number Three, don't flap yer helbows like an 'en; you ain't laid an
hegg, 'ave you?
"'Ollow yer backs, 'eads up, 'eels down; four feet from nose to croup.
"Number One, keep yer feet back, you'll be kickin' that mare's teeth
out, you will.
"Come down off 'is 'ead, Number Seven; this ain't a monkey-'ouse.
"Keep a light an' even feelin' of both reins, backs of the 'ands
foremost, four feet from nose to croup.
"Leggo that mare's tail, Number Seven; you're goin', not comin', and
any'ow that mare likes to keep 'er tail to 'erself. You've upset 'er
now, the tears is fair streamin' down 'er face--'ave a bit of feelin'
for a pore dumb beast.
"'Ollow yer backs, even pace, grip with the knees, shorten yer reins,
four feet from nose to croup. Number Eight, restrain yerself, me
lad, restrain yerself, you ain't shadow-sparrin', you know.
"You too, Number Nine; if you don't calm yer action a bit you'll
burst somethin'.
"Now, remember, a light feelin' of the right rein and pressure of the
left leg. Ride--wa-a-alk! Ri'--tur-r-rn! 'Alt--'pare to
s'mount--s'mount! Dismount, I said, Number Five; that means get
down. No, don't dismount on the flat of yer back, me lad, it don't
look nice. Try to remember you're an horfficer and be more dignified.
"Now listen to me while I enumerate the parts of a norse in language
so simple any bloomin' fool can understand. This'll be useful to
you, for if you ever 'ave a norse to deal with and he loses one of
'is parts you'll know 'ow to indent for a new one.
"The 'orse 'as two ends, a fore-end--so called from its tendency to
go first, and an 'ind-end or rear rank. The 'orse is provided with
two legs at each end, which can be easily distinguished, the fore
legs being straight and the 'ind legs 'avin' kinks in 'em.
"As the 'orse does seventy-five per cent of 'is dirty work with 'is
'ind-legs it is advisable to keep clear of 'em, rail 'em off or strap
boxing-gloves on 'em. The legs of the 'orse is very delicate and
liable to crock up, so do not try to trim off any unsightly knobs
that may appear on them with a hand-axe--a little of that 'as been
known to sour a norse for good.
"Next we come to the 'ead. On the south side of the 'ead we discover
the mouth. The 'orse's mouth was constructed for mincing 'is
victuals, also for 'is rider to 'ang on by. As the 'orse does the
other forty-five per cent of 'is dirty work with 'is mouth it is
advisable to stand clear of that as well. In fact, what with his
mouth at one end and 'is 'ind-legs at t'other, the middle of the
'orse is about the only safe spot, _and that is why we place the
saddle there_. Everything in the Harmy is done with a reason,
gentlemen.
"And now, Number ten, tell me what coloured 'orse you are ridin'?
"A chestnut? No, 'e ain't no chestnut and never was, no, nor a
raspberry roan neither; 'e's a bay. 'Ow often must I tell you that a
chestnut 'orse is the colour of lager beer, a brown 'orse the colour
of draught ale, and a black 'orse the colour of stout.
"And now, gentlemen, stan' to yer 'orses, 'pare to mount--mount!
"There you go, Number Seven, up one side and down the other. Try to
stop in the saddle for a minute if only for the view. You'll get
yourself 'urted one of these days dashing about all over the 'orse
like that; and s'posing you was to break your neck, who'd get into
trouble? _Me_, not you. 'Ave a bit of consideration for other
people, please.
"Now mind the word. Ride--ri'--tur-r-rn. Walk march. Tr-a-a-at.
Helbows slightly brushing the ribs--_your_ ribs, not the 'orse's,
Number Three.
"Shorten yer reins, 'eels down, 'eads up, 'ollow yer backs, four feet
from nose to croup.
"Get off that mare's neck, Number Seven, and try ridin' in the saddle
for a change; it'll be more comfortable for everybody.
"You oughter do cowboy stunts for the movin' pictures, Number Six,
you ought really. People would pay money to see you ride a norse
upside down like that. Got a strain of wild Cossack blood in you, eh?
"There you are, now you've been and fell off. Nice way to repay me
for all the patience an' learning I've given you!
"What are you lyin' there for? Day dreaming? I s'pose you're goin'
to tell me you're 'urted now? Be writing 'ome to Mother about it
next: 'Dear Ma,--A mad mustang 'as trod on me stummick. Please send
me a gold stripe. Your loving child, Algy.'
"Now mind the word. Ride--can--ter!"
He cracks his whip; the horses throw up their heads and break into a
canter; the cavaliers turn pea-green about the chops, let go the
reins and clutch saddle-pommels.
The leading horse, a rakish chestnut, finding his head free at last
and being heartily fed-up with the whole business, suddenly bolts out
of the _manège_ and legs it across the meadow, _en route_ for stables
and tea. His eleven mates stream in his wake, emptying saddles as
they go.
The ten little gamins dance ecstatically upon the bank, waving their
shirts and shrilling "_A Berlin! A Berlin!_"
The ancient Gaul props himself up against the piebald cow and shakes
his ancient head. "_C'est la guerre_," he croaks.
The deserted Riding-Master damns his eyes and blesses his soul for a
few moments; then sighs resignedly, takes a cigarette from his cap
lining, lights it and waddles off towards the village and his
favourite _estaminet_.