_Mrs. Pratt._ Are they? I wonder why _that_ is. (_As the regiment ranks by in single file._) But they've _all_ got beautiful horses. _Capt. C._ (_critically_). H'm, they're a fair-lookin' lot. Fall off a bit behind, some of 'em. _Mrs. Pratt._ Do they? Then they can't be very good riders, _can_ they? _Capt. C._ These fellows? They ought to be; most of 'em, you see, hunt their horses regularly. _Mrs. Pratt._ (_with a mental vision of dismounted troopers chasing their chargers about the ground_). What fun! I should like to see them do that. (_As the regiment trots past in sections._) But they don't seem to come off over the trotting. [Illustration: "'Twas onfortunate fur Garge, him bein' th' only man as fell arf."] _Capt. C._ Not quite; the leaders don't keep their distance, so the men can't keep up. Still, considering how short a time they've been out, you can't expect---- _Mrs. Pratt._ No; and they haven't tried to _gallop_ yet, have they? Some of the horses are cantering now, though; it looks so much nicer than if they all trotted, _I_ think. _Capt. C._ Don't fancy their Colonel would agree with you there. _Mrs. Pratt._ What a shame to keep those poor soldiers out there all by themselves; they don't have any fun, and they only get in the way of the others when they turn round. Oh, look at them now--they're all coming straight at us, and waving their swords! _Capt. C._ Pursuin' practice at the gallop; doin' it rather decently, too. _Mrs. Pratt._ But _do_ you think we're safe just here? Suppose they can't stop themselves in time! _Capt. C._ No danger of that; too heavily bitted to get out of hand.... There, you see, they're all wheelin' round. That'll be the wind up. Yes, they're drawn up in line; officers called to the front. Now the inspecting officer is makin' a few remarks, butterin' 'em up all round, you know. It's all over. _Mrs. Pratt._ Really? It's been a great success, hasn't it? I enjoy a review so much better when they don't have any horrid firing. Don't you? [Captain CLINKER _assents, to save trouble_. * * * * * ON THE WAY HOME. _George's Rival_ (_reflectively_). 'Twas onfortnate fur GARGE, him bein' th' only man as fell arf, so 'twas. _The Adored One._ He didn't fall off--he only fell _out_. Didn't you hear him tellin' me the buckle of his stirrup broke? _George's Rival._ Buckle or nawn, he come arf; that's all I'm sayin'. An' showed his sense, too, by keepin' out o' th' rest on it. But GARGE was allays a keerful sart o' chap. * * * * * SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.