R.M. (after distributing the remaining horses).  Now then—­bring your ’orses up into line, and stand by, ready to mount at the word of command, reins taken up in the left ’and with the second and little fingers, and a lock of the ’orse’s mane twisted round the first.  Mount!  That ’orse ain’t a bicycle, Mr. SNIGGERS. [Mr. S. (in an undertone.) No—­worse luck!] Number off!  Walk!  I shall give the word to trot directly, so now’s the time to improve your seats—­that back a bit straighter, Mr.  ’OOPER.  No. 4, just fall out, and we’ll let them stirrup-leathers down another ’ole or two for yer. (No. 4, who has just been congratulating himself that his stirrups were conveniently high, has to see them let down to a distance where he can just touch them by stretching.) Now you’re all comfortable. ["Oh, are we?” from Mr. S.] Trot!  Mr. TONGS, Sir, ’old that ‘orse in—­he’s gettin’ away with you already.  Very bad, Mr. JOGGLES, Sir—­keep those ’eels down!  Lost your stirrup, Mr. JELLY?  Never mind that—­feel for it, Sir.  I want you to be independent of the irons.  I’m going to make you ride without ’em presently. (Mr. JELLY shivers in his saddle.) Captin’ CROPPER, Sir; if that Volunteer ridgment as you’re goin’ to be the Major of sees you like you are now, on a field-day—­they’ll ’ave to fall out to larf, Sir! (Mr. CROPPER devoutly wishes he had been less ingenuous as to his motive for practising his riding.) Now, Mr. SNIGGERS, make that ’orse learn ’oo’s the master! [Mr. S.  “He knows, the brute!”]

Mrs. B.-K. He’s very rude to all the Class, except dear ROBERT—­but then ROBERT has such a nice easy seat.

The R.M. Mr. BILBOW-KAY, Sir, try and set a bit closer.  Why, you ain’t no more ’old on that saddle than a stamp with the gum licked off!  Can-ter! You’re all right, Mr. JOGGLES—­it’s on’y his play; set down on your saddle, Sir!...  I didn’t say on the ground!

Mrs. B.-K. (anxiously to her Son, as he passes).  BOB, are you quite sure you’re safe? (To Friend.) His horse is snorting so dreadfully!

R.M. ’Alt!  Every Gentleman take his feet out of the stirrups, and cross them on the saddle in front of him.  Not your feet, Mr. SNIGGERS, we ain’t Turks ’ere!

Mr. S. (sotto voce).  “There’s one bloomin’ Turk ’ere, anyway!”

R.M. Now then,—­Walk!...  Trot!  Set back, Gentlemen, set back all—­’old on by your knees, not the pommels. I see you, Mr. JELLY, kitchin’ ‘old o’ the mane—­I shall ’ave to give you a ’ogged ’orse next time you come.  Quicken up a bit—­this is a ride, not a funeral.  Why, I could roll faster than you’re trotting!  Lor, you’re like a row o’ Guy Foxes on ’orseback, you are!  Ah, I thought I’d see one o’ you orf!  Goa-ron, all o’ you, you don’t come ’ere to play at ridin’—­I’ll make you ride