One of my drivers, a Cockney, called one of his horses Old Moore--"'cos
'e knows every blinkin' fing like _Old Moore's Almanac_."
One evening, as we were going into the line, we were halted by a staff
officer and warned of gas. Orders were given at once to wear gas
helmets. (A nose-bag gas-mask had just been issued for horses.)
After a while I made my way to the rear of the column to see how things
were. I was puffing and gasping for breath, when a cheery voice called
out, "Stick it, sargint."
Wondering how any man could be so cheery in such circumstances, I
lifted my gas helmet, and lo! there sat my Cockney driver, with his
horses' masks slung over his arm and his own on top of his head like a
cap-comforter.
"Why aren't you wearing your gas helmet?" I asked.
He leaned over the saddle and replied, in a confidential whisper, "Old
Moore chucked his orf, so there ain't no blinkin' gas abaht--_'e_
knows."
We finished the rest of that journey in comfort. Old Moore had
prophesied correctly.--_S. Harvey (late R.F.A.), 28 Belmont Park Road,
Leyton, E.10_.