Tubby.  Just because I’ve got a healthy appetite—­

Brown.  Healthy appetites aren’t being worn this season, Sir—­bad form.  How are the politicians’ park hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don’t tighten his girth a bit?  Be patriotic, old dear; eat less oats.

Chestnut.  That Mess gramophone must be red-hot by now.  It’s been running continuous since First Post.  I suppose somebody’s mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they’re seeing life while the bubbles last.

Monty.  Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill.

Iron-grey.  God save us, thin!

A Mexican roan.  Buenas noches!

Gunpack horse.  Hish!  Orderly Officer.  ’E’s in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can ’ear ‘im cursin’ as he trips over the heel shackles.

Monty.  Hush, you fellows.  Orderly Officer. Bong swar.

* * * * *

Once more heads and hips droop.  They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect.  The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour.  From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, “Lights out."

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Venus.  “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THE ARMY?”

Mars.  “OH, ABOUT THREE CHEQUE-BOOKS.”]

* * * * *

HYMN FOR HIGH PLACES.

  In darkened days of strife and fear,
    When far from home and hold,
  I do essay my soul to cheer
    As did wise men of old;
  When folk do go in doleful guise
    And are for life afraid,
  I to the hills will lift mine eyes
    From whence doth come mine aid.

  I shall my soul a temple make
    Where hills stand up on high;
  Thither my sadness shall I take
    And comfort there descry;
  For every good and noble mount
    This message doth extend—­
  That evil men must render count
    And evil days must end.

  For, sooth, it is a kingly sight
    To see God’s mountain tall
  That vanquisheth each lesser height
    As great hearts vanquish small;
  Stand up, stand up, ye holy hills,
    As saints and seraphs do,
  That ye may bear these present ills
    And lead men safely through.

  Let high and low repair and go
    To where great hills endure;
  Let strong and weak be there to seek
    Their comfort and their cure;
  And for all hills in fair array
    Now thanks and blessings give,
  And, bearing healthful hearts away,
    Home go and stoutly live.