“‘Ere, Maffewson, you bone-idle, moonin’ waster,” bawled the raucous voice of Lance-Corporal Prag, and Dam’s soaring spirit fell to earth.

The first officer to whom Trooper Matthewson gave his smart respectful salute as he stood on sentry-duty was the Major, the Second-in-Command of the Queen’s Greys, newly rejoined from furlough,—­a belted Earl, famous for his sporting habit of riding always and everywhere without a saddle—­who, as a merry subaltern, had been Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie and Adjutant of the Queen’s Greys at Bimariabad in India.  There, he had, almost daily, taken upon his knee, shoulder, saddle, or dog-cart, the chubby son of his polo and pig-sticking exemplar, Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne.

The sentry had a dim idea that he had seen the Major somewhere before.

CHAPTER IX.

A SNAKE AVENGES A HADDOCK AND LUCILLE BEHAVES IN AN UN-SMELLIEAN MANNER.

Finding himself free for the afternoon, and the proud possessor of several shillings, “Trooper Matthewson” decided to walk to Folkestone, attend an attractively advertised concert on the pier, and then indulge in an absolutely private meal in some small tea-room or confectioner’s shop.

Arrayed in scarlet shell-jacket, white-striped overalls, and pill-box cap, he started forth, carrying himself as though exceeding proud to be what he was, and wondering whether a swim in the sea, which should end somewhere between Shorncliffe and Dieppe (and end his troubles too), would not be a better pastime.

Arrived at the Folkestone pier, Dam approached the ticket office at the entrance and tendered his shilling to the oily-curled, curly-nosed young Jew who sat at the receipt of custom.

“Clear out o’ this,” said Levi Solomonson.

“I want a ticket for the concert,” said Dam, not understanding.

“Would you like a row o’ stalls to sprawl your dirty carcase on?...  Outside, I tell yer, Tommy Atkins, this ain’t a music-’all nor yet a pub.  Soldiers not ‘’alf-price to cheap seats’ nor yet full-price—­nor yet for ten pound a time.  Out yer go, lobster.”

The powerful hand of Damocles de Warrenne approached the window and, for a second, Mr. Levi Solomonson was in danger—­but only for a second.  Dam was being well-broken-in, and quickly realized that he was no longer a free British citizen entitled to the rights of such so long as he behaved as a citizen should, but a mere horrible defender of those of his countrymen, who were averse from the toils and possible dangers of self-defence.  It was brought home to him, then and there, with some clearness, that the noble Britons who (perhaps) “never never will be slaves,” have a fine and high contempt for those whose life-work is to save them from that distressing position; that the noble Briton, while stoutly (and truly Britishly) refusing to hear of universal service and the doing by each man of his first duty to the