Next morning the Riding-Master was convulsed with merriment at the mere sight of him, addressed him variously as Jellicoe, Captain Kidd and Sinbad, and, after first warning MacTavish not to imagine he was ashore at Port Said riding the favourite in a donkey Derby, translated all his instructions into nautical language.  For instance:  “Right rein—­haul the starboard yoke line; gallop—­full steam ahead; halt—­cast anchor; dismount—­abandon ship,” and so forth, giving his delicate and fanciful sense of humour full play and evoking roars of laughter from the whole house.  It did not take MacTavish long to realise that, no matter what he said, he would never again be taken seriously in that place; he was, in fact, the world’s stock joke, a sailor on horseback (Ha, ha, ha!).

He set his jaw and was determined that he would not be caught tripping again; there should be no more reminiscences.  Once clear of Ireland he would bury his past.

All this happened years ago.

When I came back from leave the other day I asked for Albert Edward.  “He and MacTavish are up at Corpse H.Q.,” said the skipper; “they’re helping the A.P.M. straighten the traffic out.  By the way you’d better trickle up there and relieve them, as they’re both going on leave in a day or so.”

I trickled up to Corpse and eventually discovered Albert Edward alone, practising the three-card trick with a view to a career after the War.  “You’ll enjoy this Mess,” said he, turning up “the Lady” where he least expected her; “it’s made up of Staff eccentrics—­Demobilizing, Delousing, Educational, Laundry and Burial wallahs—­all sorts, very interesting; you’ll learn how the other half lives and all that.  Oh, that reminds me.  You know poor old MacTavish’s secret, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said I; “everybody does.  Why?”

Albert Edward grinned.  “Because there’s another bloke here with a dark past, only this is t’other way about; he’s a bumpkin turned sailor, Blenkinsop by name, you know, the Shropshire hackney breeders.  He’s Naval Division.  Ever rub against those merchants?”

I had not.

“Well, I have,” Albert Edward went on.  “They’re wonders; pretend they’re in mid-ocean all the time, stuck in the mud on the Beaucourt Ridge, gummed in the clay at Souchez—­anywhere.  They ‘come aboard’ a trench and call their records-office—­a staid and solid bourgeois dwelling in Havre—­H.M.S.  Victory.  If you were bleeding to death and asked for the First Aid Post they wouldn’t understand you; you’ve got to say ‘Sick bay’ or bleed on.  If you want a meal you’ve got to call the cook-house ‘The galley,’ or starve.

“This matelot Blenkinsop has got it very badly.  He obtained all his sea experience at the Crystal Palace and has been mud-pounding up and down France for three years, and yet here we have him now pretending there’s no such thing as dry land.”

“Not an unnatural delusion,” I remarked.