[_Number Three exhales despondently through the mouth, realising the vanity of all human endeavour. The Troop Sergeant, satisfied that he has disposed of Number Three, glares contentedly at the troop in silence._ _Troop_ (_exhaling through the mouth_). F-s-s-s-s-h. _Troop Sergeant_ (_with sudden emotion_). Look at your neck, Number Ten. I ask you, look at the back of your neck. [_Number Ten, feeling that this is a difficult feat to perform at any time and quite impossible when lying on his back, continues to gaze upwards, conscious of insubordination._ _Troop Sergeant._ Why is it twisted like that? A bone out of place, the doctors will tell you. But (_solemnly_) WHY is it out of place, I ask you? Tell me that. Want of hoxygen--that's what it is. It's as plain as day. [_Enter Troop Officer._ _Troop Officer_ (_explosively_). A-tssh! Code id by head, Sergeadt. _Troop Sergeant._ Ah, Sir, if you was to do these breathing exercises you wouldn't 'ave no colds, Sir. If everyone was to do these exercises there wouldn't be no doctors, Sir. It's only want of hoxygen that makes people ill. There isn't a man in this troop's 'ad a cold since we began, Sir. _Numbers Five, Seven and Nine_ (_surreptitiously_). A-tissh! [_The Troop Sergeant is about to ignore this breach of discipline when Number Three, who has been trying to repress a sneeze while inhaling through the nose and at the same time carrying the legs to a vertical position above the body, explodes violently._ _Troop Sergeant_ (_ominously_). Number Three! _Number Three_ (_weakly_). Yes, Sergeant. _Troop Sergeant._ Have you got a cold? _Number Three_ (_ingratiatingly_). Only a very little one, Sergeant. _Troop Sergeant_ (_appealing to Officer_). Isn't it enough to break one's 'eart, Sir? 'Ere am I trying to do them a bit o' good and 'ere's this man lies there with his 'ead tucked into 'is chest, and doesn't even try to breathe. There's only one thing that causes a cold. Want of hox----A-tissh! A-tissh! * * * [_A painful silence ensues. The Officer walks away, leaving the Sergeant to his grief. The forty seals continue to flap in the mud puddle in ----shire._ * * * * * THE WATCH DOGS. XI. MY DEAR CHARLES,--When you have witnessed a military inspection, have seen the Great Man going round the companies and have heard his few kind words to the victims of his scrutiny, no doubt you have told yourself that a soldier's life must be very smooth and comfortable and his work as easy as kiss-my-hand. If further you assume, from the clock-like regularity of the parade, that we must all be on very good terms and intimate understanding with each other, I feel bound to disclose the dismal facts.