Their coaches sit the old, old gees, But with a manner something larger, As warriors who between their knees Have learned to steer the bounding charger. Unchanged their language, rude and firm, Save where a khaki note is sounded, And here and there a towpath term With military tags confounded. "Get forward! Are you ready? Quick-- March!" "Get a move on! Keep it breezy!" "Two, mind the step!" "Swing out and kick!" "Halt! Sit at--ease! Ground--oars! Sit easy!" "The dressing's bad all down the line." "Eyes on your front rank's shoulders, Seven! Don't watch the Cam--it's not the Rhine-- Or gaze for Gothas up in heaven!" "I want to hear your rowlocks ring Like a good volley, all together." "Hands up (or 'Kamerad') as you swing Straight from the hips. Don't sky your feather, As if I'd given the word, 'High Port'!" "Five, I admit your martial charms, Sir, But now you're on a rowing-thwart, So use your legs and not your arms, Sir!" "Six, you've a rotten seat, my son; Don't trust your stirrups; grip the saddle!" "Squad--properly at ease! Squad--'shun! Get forward! By the centre--paddle!" O.S. * * * * * CAST. The auctioneer glanced at his book. "Number 29," he said, "black mare, aged, blind in near eye, otherwise sound." The cold rain and the biting north-east wind did not add to the appearance of Number 29, as she stood, dejected, listless, with head drooping, in the centre of the farmers and horse-dealers who were attending the sale of cast Army horses. She looked as though she realised that her day had waned, and that the bright steel work, the soft well-greased leather, the snowy head-rope and the shining curb were to be put aside for less noble trappings. She had a curiously shaped white blaze, and I think it was that, added to the description of her blindness, which stirred my memory within me. I closed my eyes for a second and it all came back to me, the gun stuck in the mud, the men straining at the wheels, the shells bursting, the reek of high explosive, the two leaders lying dead on the road, and, above all, two gallant horses doing the work of four and pulling till you'd think their hearts would burst. I stepped forward and, looking closer at the mare's neck, found what I had expected, a great scar. That settled it. I approached the auctioneer and asked permission to speak to the crowd for a few moments. "Well," said he, "I'm supposed to do the talking here, you know." "It won't do you any harm," I pleaded, "and it will give me a chance to pay off a big debt." "Right," he said, smiling; "carry on."