lines.  They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze.  The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ.  “The hours I spent wiv thee, dear ’eart, are-Stan’ still, Ginger—­like a string of pearls ter me-ee ...  Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin’!” The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire—­the Bosch evensong.

A bay horse (shifting his weight from one leg to the other)._
Somebody’s catching it in the neck to-night.

A chestnut.  Yep.  Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we’d be standing to.

A gunpack horse.  Why?

Chestnut.  Wind up, sonny.  Why, in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak.  In 1914—­

A black horse.  Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let WILLIAM’S own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you.

A bay horse.  Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna.  What are your personal recollections of NAPOLEON, Rufus?

Chestnut.  You blinkin’ conscripts, you!

Black. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus—­ladies present.

Chestnut.  Ladies, huh.  Behave nice and ladylike when they catch sight of the nosebags, don’t they?

A skewbald mare.  Well, we gotta stand up for our rights.

Chestnut.  S’truth you do, tooth and hoof.  What were you in civil life, Baby?  A Suffragette?

Skewbald.  No, I wasn’t, so there.

Bay.  No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. N’est-ce pas, cherie?

Skewbald.  Well, what if I did?  There’s scores of circus-gals is puffect lydies.  I don’t require none of your familiarity any’ow, Mister.

Bay.  Beg pardon.  Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless take your nose out of my hay-net, please.

A Canadian dun.  Gee! quit weavin’ about like that, Tubby.  Can’t you let a guy get some sleep.  I’ll hand you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute.  Wazzer matter with you, anyhow?

Tubby.  Had a bad dream.

Black.  Don’t wonder, the way you over-eat yourself.

Bay.  Ever know a Quartermaster’s horse that didn’t?  He’s the only one that gets the chance.

Skewbald.  And the Officers’ chargers.

Voice from over the way.  Well, we need it, don’t we?  We do all the bally head-work.

Bay.  Hearken even unto the Honourable Montmorency.  Hello, Monty there!  Never mind about the bally head-work, but next time you’re out troop-leading try to steer a course somewhat approaching the straight.  You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina this morning.