In the afternoon Colonel Fortescue, sitting in his office, from which not even Christmas Day exempted him, saw, a long way off, down by the non-coms’ quarters, a pitiful sight.  Mrs. McGillicuddy had carried out her menace to put a buggy in the Sergeant’s Christmas stocking.  The buggy was at the Sergeant’s door, and in it sat Mrs. McGillicuddy, elaborately dressed, a picture hat and feathers on her carefully frizzed hair and her voluminous draperies nearly swamping the little Sergeant cowering in the corner of the buggy.  To it was hitched the milkman’s mare, which was about as big as a large rabbit and owned up to twenty-three years of age and the name of Dot.  The equipage passed out of sight but in an hour was seen returning.  Mrs. McGillicuddy sat majestically upright in the buggy, while the Sergeant bestrode the peaceful and amiable Dot.

[Illustration:  Mrs. McGillicuddy sat majestically upright in the buggy while the Sergeant bestrode the peaceful and amiable Dot.]

Presently the Sergeant, looking much wilted and depressed, entered the Colonel’s office.

“Did you enjoy your drive in the new buggy, Sergeant?” asked the Colonel.

“No, sir,” replied the Sergeant, earnestly, “this has been a awful Christmas day to me.  I didn’t think as Missis McGillicuddy would play me such a low trick as to give me the buggy and then make me ride in it.  She said as the milkman told her he had owned the mare fir thirteen years, and she wasn’t young when he bought her; but I reminded her as thirteen was a unlucky number.  But Missis McGillicuddy acted heartless and give orders as I was to mount that buggy.  I pleadid with her, sir, not to risk my life, for the sake of the eight children, even if she didn’t have no love or affection for me.  I reminded her as she’d stand a divil of a chanst of gettin’ married again, havin’ all them eight children.  I told her the aviation orficer had promised to take me flyin’ with him to-morrow mornin’, and if I lost my life in a wheeled vehicle there’d be no more flyin’ fir me because I don’t look to be a angel immediate I get into the next world.  All she says to me was, like she was a Sergeant Major and I was a recruity, ’You get into this buggy, Patrick McGillicuddy.’  So, as orders is orders, sir, I got in, and I stayed in until my fears of that horse’s hind feet right under nay nose got the better of my duty to Missis McGillicuddy, as my superior orficer.  I begun to feel hollow inside, like a man feels when he’s ordered into action and the artillery is ploughing up the ground with shells.  Then, sir, I mutinied.  I jumped out of that damned buggy—­excuse me, sir—­and I got on the back of the mare and felt jist as safe as if I was riding old Corporal, the horse we gives the recruits to ride.  I’ve escaped the dangers of that buggy and there won’t be no vacancy in my grade yet awhile from ridin’ in wheeled vehicles.  An I’m goin’ flyin’ tomorrow in a nice safe aeroplane that’s got a man hitched to it and not a horse.  This ain’t been no merry Christmas to me, sir.  And if Missis McGillicuddy holds a reg’lar court of inquiry on me, as she does seven nights in the week, I’m a’ goin’ to stand on my rights and swear by the Jumpin’ Moses I’ll never set foot again in that damned, infernal, hellish buggy, sir,—­excuse me, sir.”