"Then put them to bed at ten o'clock--or nine, if need be," said Dwight, impatient of demur; but Stone proved obdurate. "I see no reason for so radical a change," said he, to the relief of the juniors, who feared Dwight's vehement onward nature might prevail over the placidity of Stone; and so the new-made major was fain to content himself with sounding mess call right after reveille, then "Boots and Saddles" in place of "Stables," and, by dispensing with morning grooming, getting his troops into line on the flats to the south and starting a humming squadron drill before seven o'clock. Time had been in the long-ago happy days when it was quite the thing for Mrs. Ray, Mrs. Truscott, Margaret Dwight, and other women of the old regiment to ride, drive, or stroll out to the ground and watch their soldier-husbands through much of the morning's dashing drill. The effect was good in more ways than one. It keyed up the pride of the men and kept down the profanity of their mentors, some of whom, as was a way in the old days of the mounted service, _would_ break out with sudden and startling blasphemy when things went wildly amiss. It is easy on foot to bring instant order out of apparent chaos. The stark command "Halt!" does the business; but, given tenscore, high-strung, grain-fed, spirited steeds, tearing at their bits and lunging full gallop in mad race for a charge, it often happens that neither voice nor trumpet, nor tugging, straining bridle arm can prevail, and it is then the air rings with expletives. No one ever heard Truscott swear. He was a model of self-control. Dwight, too, had been renowned for the success with which he handled horses and men and maintained his personal serenity. But Marion Ray more times than a few in the earlier days of her married life had cause to blush for Billy, who, the idol of his men and perhaps the most magnetic drillmaster and troop leader in the regiment, so lost himself in the enthusiasm and dash of squadron drill at the trot or gallop, that his Blue Grass exhortations could be heard over the thunder of a thousand hoofs, to the entire delight of the sorrel troop, the sympathetic joy of their rivals and the speechless dismay of the pious. "Tut-tut-tut!" was a dear old chaplain wont to say; "is it not strange that so good a man can use such very bad language?" Yet Captain Ray in private life shrank from profanity as he did from punch. On mounted drill it rippled from his lips with unconscious, unpremeditated fluency.