The Crowd (to rider of black horse).  Go on, now’s your chance!  ’It him! (The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional scrutiny.)

The Judge.  Here, you on the black horse, you mustn’t hit that other horse about the head. (The man addressed appears rebuked and surprised under his black-wired visor; The Judge, reassuringly.) It’s all right, you know; only, don’t do it again, that’s all! (The Combatant sits up again.)

The Gushing Lady.  Oh, I can’t bear to look on, really.  I’m sure they oughtn’t to hit so hard—­how their poor dear heads must ache!  Isn’t that chestnut a duck?  I’m sure he’s trying to save his master from getting hurt—­they’re such sensible creatures, horses are! (Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring with laughter when one is knocked over.)

DURING THE MUSICAL RIDE.

The Gushing Lady.  Oh, they’re simply too sweet! how those horses are enjoying it—­aren’t they pets? and how perfectly they keep step to the music, don’t they?

Her Friend (who is beginning to get a trifle tired by her enthusiasm).  Yes; but then they’re all trained by Madame KATTI LANNER, of Drury Lane, you see.

The G.L. What pains she must have taken with them; but you can teach a horse anything, can’t you?

Her Friend.  Oh, that’s nothing; next year they’re going to have a horse who’ll dance the Highland Fling.

The Socialist.  A pretty sight?  Cost a pretty sight o’ the People’s money, I know that.  Tomfoolery, that’s what it is; a set of dressed-up bullies dancin’ quadrilles on ’orseback; that ain’t military manoeuvrin’.  It’s sickenin’ the way fools applaud such goins on.  And cuttin off the Saracen’s ’ed, too; I’d call it plucky if the Saracen ’ad a gun in his ’and.  Bah, I ate the ole business!

His Neighbour.  Got anybody along with you, Mate?

The Socialist.  No, I don’t want anybody along with me, I don’t.

His Neighbour.  That’s a pity, that is.  A sweet-tempered, pleasant-spoken party like you are oughtn’t to go about by yourself.  You ought to bring somebody just to enjoy your conversation.  There don’t seem to be anybody ‘ere of your way of thinkin’.

DURING THE COMBINED DISPLAY.

The Gushing Lady (as the Cyclist Corps enter).  Oh, they’ve got a dog with them.  Do look—­such a dear!  See, they’ve tied a letter round his neck.  He’ll come back with an answer presently. (But, there being apparently no answer to this communication, the faithful but prudent animal does not re-appear.)