Even as the Rough-Riding Corporal and two other men were dragging the struggling, raving recruit to the door, en route for the Guard-room, entered the great remote, dread Riding-Master himself.

“What’s this?” inquired Hon. Captain Style, Riding-Master of the Queen’s Greys, strict, kind-hearted martinet.

Salute, and explanations from the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major.

Torrent of accusation and incoherent complaint and threat from the baited Muggins.

“Mount that horse,” says the Riding-Master.

“I’ll go to Clink first,” gasps Muggins.  “I’ll go to ’Ell first.”

“No. Afterwards,” replies the Riding-Master and sends the Rough-Riding Corporal for the backboard—­dread instrument of equestrian persuasion.

Muggins is forcibly mounted, put in the lunging ring and sent round and round till he throws himself off at full gallop and lies crying and sobbing like a child—­utterly broken.

Riding-Master smiles, allows Muggins to grow calmer, accepts his apologies and promises, shows him he has had his Hell after, as promised, and that it is a better punishment than one that leaves him with a serious “crime” entry on his Defaulter’s Sheet for life....  That vile and damning sheet that records the youthful peccadilloes and keeps it a life-long punishment after its own severe punishment....  To the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major he quietly remarks:  “No good non-com makes crimes ... and don’t forget that the day of riding-school brutality is passing.  You can carry a man further than you can kick him.”

And the interrupted lesson continues.

“Sit back and you can’t come off.  Nobody falls off backwards.” ...

Poor “Old Sit-Back”! (as he was called from his constant cry)—­after giving that order and guarantee daily for countless days—­was killed in the riding-school by coming off backwards from the stripped saddle of a rearing horse—­(which promptly fell upon him and crushed his chest)—­that had never reared before and would not have reared then, it was said, but for the mysterious introduction, under its saddle, of a remarkably “foreign” body.

Memories ...!

How certain old “Sit-Back” had been that Dam was a worthless “back-to-the-Army-again” when he found him a finished horseman, an extraordinarily expert swordsman, and a master of the lance.

“You aren’t old enough for a ‘time-expired,’” he mused, “nor for a cashiered officer.  One of the professional ‘enlist-desert-and-sell-me-kit,’ I suppose.  Anyhow you’ll do time for one of the three if I don’t approve of ye....  You’ve been in the Cavalry before.  Lancer regiment, too.  Don’t tell me lies ... but see to it that I’m satisfied with your conduct.  Gentlemen-rankers are better in their proper place—­Jail.” ...

None the less it had given Dam a thrill of pride when, on being dismissed recruit-drills and drafted from the reserve troop to a squadron, the Adjutant had posted him to E Troop, wherein were congregated the seven other undoubted gentlemen-rankers of the Queen’s Greys (one of whom would one day become a peer of the realm and, meantime, followed what he called “the only profession in the world” in discomfort for a space, the while his Commission ripened).