An iron-grey.  Begob, and that’s the holy truth!  I thought my ribs was goin’ ivery minnut, an’ me man was cursin’ undher his breath the way you’d hear him a mile away.  Ye’ve no more idea of a straight line, Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken.

Monty.  Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp.

Canadian dun.  Flies?  Say, but you greenhorns make me smile.  Why, out West we got flies that—­

Iron-grey.  Och sure we’ve heard all about thim.  ’Tis as big as bull-dogs they are; ivery time they bite you you lose a limb.  Many a time the traveller has observed thim flyin’ away wid a foal in their jaws, the rapparees!  F’ all that I do be remarkin’ that whin one of the effete European variety is afther ticklin’ you in the short hairs you step very free an’ flippant, Johnny acushla.

A brown horse.  Say, Monty, old top, any news?  You’ve got a pal at G.H.Q., haven’t you?

Monty.  Oh, yes, my young brother.  He’s got a job on HAIG’S personal Staff now, wears a red brow-band and all that—­ahem!  Of course he tells me a thing or two when we meet, but in the strictest confidence, you understand.

Brown.  Quite; but did he say anything about the end of the War?

Monty.  Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, excepting that he says that it’s pretty certain now that it—­er—­well, that it will end.

Brown.  That’s good news.  Thanks, Monty.

Monty.  Not a bit, old thing.  Don’t mention it.

Iron-grey.  ’Tis a great comfort to us to know that the War will ind, if not in our day, annyway some time.

Canadian dun.  You bet.  Gee, I wish it was all over an’ I was home in the foothills with the brown wool and pink prairie roses underfoot and the Chinook layin’ my mane over.

Iron-grey.  Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an’ a leak-proof roof.

Tubby.  Yes, with full meals coming regularly.

A bay mare.  I’ve got a two-year-old in Devon I’d like to see again.

Monty.  I’ve no quarrel with Leicestershire myself.

Gunpack horse.  Garn!  Wot abaht good old London?

Chestnut.  Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about?  You never had a full meal in your life until Lord DERBY pulled you out of that coster barrow and pushed you into the Army.

Tubby.  A full meal in the Army—­help!

Brown.  Listen to our living skeleton.  Do you chaps remember that afternoon he had to himself in an oat-field up Plug Street way?  When the grooms found him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown up like a poisoned pup.  “Blimy,” says one lad to t’other, “’ere’s one of our observation bladders the ’Un ’as brought down.”

Chestnut.  I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that he’d buy a hay-stack some day and try to burst you, Tubby.  The Sergeant bet him a month’s pay it couldn’t be done.