_Stentorian Judge_ (_in Arena_). Corporal BINKS! (_The Assistants give
a finishing blow to the peg, and fall back. Corporal BINKS gallops
in, misses the peg, and rides off, relieving his feelings by whirling
his lance defiantly in the air_.) Corporal BINKS--nothing!
_A Gushing Lady_. Poor dear thing! I _do_ wish he'd struck it! he did
look so disappointed, and so did that sweet horse!
_The Judge_. Serjeant SPANKER! (_Sergeant S. gallops in, spears the
peg neatly, and carries it off triumphantly on the point of the lance,
after which he rides back and returns the peg to the Assistants as
a piece of valuable property of which he has accidentally deprived
them_) Sergeant SPANKER--eight! (_Applause; the Assistants drive in
another peg._) Corporal CUTLASH! (_Corporal C. enters, strikes the
peg, and dislodges without securing it. Immense applause from the
Crowd_.) Corporal CUTLASH--two!
_The Gushing Lady_. Only two, and when he really did hit the peg! I do
call that a shame. I should have given him more marks than the other
man--he has such a _much_ nicer face!
_A Child with a Thirst for Information_. Uncle, why do they call it
_tent_-pegging?
_The Uncle_. Why? Well, because those pegs are what they fasten down
tents with.
_The Child_. But why isn't there a tent now?
_Uncle_. Because there's no use for one.
_Child_. Why?
_Uncle_. Because all they want to do is to pick up the peg with the
point of their lance.
_Child_. Yes, but why _should_ they want to do it?
_Uncle_. Oh, to amuse their horses. (_The Child ponders upon this
answer with a view to a fresh catechism upon the equine passion for
entertainment, and the desirability, or otherwise, of gratifying it_.)
_A Chatty Man in the Promenade_ (_to his Neighbour_). Takes a deal of
practice to strike them pegs fair and full.
_His Neighbour_ (_who holds advanced Socialistic opinions_). Ah,
I dessay--and a pity they can't make no better use o' their time!
Spoiling good wood, _I_ call it. I don't see no point in it myself.
_The Chatty Man_. Well, it shows they can _ride_, at any rate.
_The Socialist_. Ride? O' course they can _ride_--we pay enough for
'aving 'em taught, don't we? But you mark my words, the People won't
put up with this state of things much longer--keepin' a set of 'ired
murderers in luxury and hidleness. I tell yer, wherever I come across
one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if
he was one of the lords of the hearth, well--it makes my nose bleed,
ah--it _does_!
_The Chatty Man_. If that's the way you talk to him, I ain't surprised
if it do.
_The Judge_. Sword _versus_ Sword! Come in, there! (_Two mounted
Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with
sword-sticks, enter the ring; Judge introduces them to audience with
the aid of a flag_.) Corporal JONES, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant
SMITH, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (_Their swords are chalked by the
Assistants_.) Are you ready? Left turn! Countermarch! Engage! (_The
Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring
his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem
determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account,
and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and
dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in
with a rattling blow on the other's head, to the intense delight of
audience. Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked,
whereupon they engage once more_--_much to the disgust of their
horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over. After the
contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants enter; one is
mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend
himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while
the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation_.) Go
on--that black horse--go on! (_The chestnut is at length brought up
to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his
rider_.)
_The Crowd_ (_to rider of black horse_). Go on, now's your chance!
'It him! (_The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and
belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated
by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional
scrutiny._)
_The Judge_. Here, you on the black horse, you mustn't hit that
other horse about the head. (_The man addressed appears rebuked and
surprised under his black-wired visor; The Judge, reassuringly_.)
It's all _right_, you know; only, don't do it again, that's all! (_The
Combatant sits up again._)
_The Gushing Lady_. Oh, I can't bear to look on, really. I'm _sure_
they oughtn't to hit so hard--_how_ their poor dear heads must ache!
Isn't that chestnut a _duck_? I'm sure he's trying to save his master
from getting hurt--they're such sensible creatures, horses are!
(_Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd
going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring
with laughter when one is knocked over_.)