The men were placed in position, the sergeant standing in the middle, armed with a long whip like a circus-master’s. His assistant rough-riders stood near him, all looking, it seemed to Jack, grimly earnest. The men, being in position, were called sharply up to ‘Attention!’ ‘Spring smartly up,’ cried the sergeant, ‘the left hand holding the snaffle-rein near the ring, the right arm down, little finger behind the stripe of the overalls.’ The assistants saw that the men were in position; then they were instructed how to stand on the command, ‘Prepare to mount!’ ‘On the command “Mount!”’ continued the sergeant, ‘place the right hand on the horse’s withers, then spring lightly up, remaining perfectly still when seated.’ ‘Mount!’ Of the eleven men in the squad, only four managed to get on their horses’ backs; some of the others were sprawling wildly on their stomachs on the horses’ backs, endeavouring madly to throw the right leg over; while one heavy fellow named Wilson had bumped against his horse with so much force that the animal reared away, and Wilson, hanging wildly to the bridle with both hands, was dragged along, shouting, ‘Whoa there! whoa, back!’ ‘What are you doing, you confounded tailor; you’re not driving a cab.’ ‘I ain’t a tailor,’ said the man; ‘I’m a plasterer.’ ‘And I’ll plaster you if you don’t watch it. Mount, man, mount!’ ‘I can’t.’ ‘Don’t answer me; do as I tell you.’ The assistants got to work; Wilson was hoisted up, and presently the whole squad was mounted. Jack had got on very well, and sat quite still on Dainty, for such was his horse’s name. ‘Walk march,’ said the sergeant; and the well-trained animals, without any intimation from their riders, began to step round the school. The sergeant kept throwing sentences at them as they went round. ‘Legs well down, heels in line with the shoulders, toes raised, back well hollowed in! Now, you Wilson fellow, sit up; man, you’re like a sack of bran tied up ugly! Sit up, the horse’s back won’t break.’ Wilson tried his best, but he made a sorry show. ‘Now we’ll try a trot. Keep your heads well up, press your knees in, let the horses throw you up and down, and ride by the balance of your bodies! But, mind, don’t lose your position or jerk the horses’ mouths!’ ‘Trot!’ What a sight was there. As the horses trotted round the men wobbled about, and several looked absolutely scared. ‘Knees in, heads up!’ shouted the instructor. ‘You, Wilson, hold on!’ Wilson obeyed by completely losing his balance, then clinging wildly round the horse’s neck, one leg across the animal’s back, the other toe just hopping along on the ground. ‘Oh you dashed tailor! oh you cobbler!’ roared the sergeant. ‘Why didn’t you join the Militia. Who sent you here for a Lancer?’ Poor Wilson rolled over on the tan, the horses stepping gingerly over him. ‘How dare you dismount?’ asked the sergeant. ‘I couldn’t keep on, sergeant.’