He discovered him sitting on the wreck of his bivouac of the night; he was clasping some small article to his bosom, and the look on his face was that of a man who had found his heart's desire. Patrick sat himself down on a box of bombs, and looked humbly at the Reverend Paul. It is an awful thing for a man suddenly to find he has been entertaining a hero unawares. "Oh, Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, why did you do it?" he inquired softly. The Padre cocked his head on one side and commenced to ooze apologies from every pore. "Oh dear--you know how absurdly absent-minded I am; well, I suddenly remembered I had left my teeth behind." VII THE RIDING-MASTER The scene is a School of Instruction at the back of the Western Front set in a valley of green meadows bordered by files of plumy poplars, and threaded through by a silver ribbon of water. On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells of a bayonet class, practising frightfulness further down the valley; also the staccato chatter of Lewis guns punching holes in the near hillside. In the centre of one meadow is a turf _manège_. In the centre of the _manège_ stands the villain of the piece, the Riding-Master. He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jackboots, vicious spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like Diavolo, the lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire. His victims, a dozen infantry officers, circle slowly round the _manège_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came out with Wellington and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink at the Riding-Master and he winks back at them. The audience consists of an ancient Gaul in picturesque blue pants, whose _mètier_ is to totter round the meadows brushing flies off a piebald cow; the School Padre, who keeps at long range so that he may see the sport without hearing the language, and ten little _gamins_, who have been splashing in the silver stream and are now sitting drying on the bank like ten little toads. They come every afternoon, for never have they seen such fun, never since the great days before the War when the circus with the boxing kangaroo and the educated porks came to town. Suddenly the Riding-Master clears his throat. At the sound thereof the horses cock their ears and their riders grab handfulls of leather and hair. _R.-M._ "Now, gentlemen, mind the word. Gently away--tra-a-a-at." The horses break into a slow jog-trot and the cavaliers into a cold perspiration. The ten little gamins cheer delightedly. _R.-M._ "Sit down, sit up, 'ollow yer backs, keep the hands down, backs foremost, even pace. Number Two, Sir, 'ollow yer back; don't sit 'unched up like you'd over-ate yourself. Number Seven, don't throw yerself about in that drunken manner, you'll miss the saddle altogether presently, coming down--can't expect the 'orse to catch you every time.