A Child with a Thirst for Information.  Uncle, why do they call it tent-pegging?

The Uncle.  Why?  Well, because those pegs are what they fasten down tents with.

The Child.  But why isn’t there a tent now?

Uncle.  Because there’s no use for one.

Child.  Why?

Uncle.  Because all they want to do is to pick up the peg with the point of their lance.

Child.  Yes, but why should they want to do it?

Uncle.  Oh, to amuse their horses. (The Child ponders upon this answer with a view to a fresh catechism upon the equine passion for entertainment, and the desirability, or otherwise, of gratifying it.)

A Chatty Man in the Promenade (to his Neighbour).  Takes a deal of practice to strike them pegs fair and full.

His Neighbour (who holds advanced Socialistic opinions).  Ah, I dessay—­and a pity they can’t make no better use o’ their time!  Spoiling good wood, I call it.  I don’t see no point in it myself.

The Chatty Man.  Well, it shows they can ride, at any rate.

The Socialist.  Ride?  O’ course they can ride—­we pay enough for ’aving ’em taught, don’t we?  But you mark my words, the People won’t put up with this state of things much longer—­keepin’ a set of ’ired murderers in luxury and hidleness.  I tell yer, wherever I come across one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if he was one of the lords of the hearth, well—­it makes my nose bleed, ah—­it does!

The Chatty Man.  If that’s the way you talk to him, I ain’t surprised if it do.

The Judge.  Sword versus Sword!  Come in, there! (Two mounted Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with sword-sticks, enter the ring; Judge introduces them to audience with the aid of a flag.) Corporal JONES, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant SMITH, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (Their swords are chalked by the Assistants.) Are you ready?  Left turn!  Countermarch!  Engage! (The Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account, and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in with a rattling blow on the other’s head, to the intense delight of audience.  Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked, whereupon they engage once more—­much to the disgust of their horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over.  After the contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants enter; one is mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation.) Go on—­that black horse—­go on! (The chestnut is at length brought up to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his rider.)