SCENE.--_A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the twinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, are.--Stan' still, Ginger--like a string of pearls ter me--ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin!" The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire--the Boche evensong._ _A bay horse_ (_shifting his weight from one leg to the other_). Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night. _A chestnut_. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we'd be standing to. _A gun-pack horse_. Why? _Chestnut_. Wind up, sonny. Why in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914---- _A black horse_. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let William's own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you. _A bay horse_. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal recollections of Napoleon, Rufus? _Chestnut_. You blinkin' conscripts, you! _Black_. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus--ladies present. _Chestnut_. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike when they catch sight of the nosebags, don't they? _A skewbald mare_. Well, we gotta stand up for our rights. _Chestnut_. 'Struth you do, tooth and hoof. What were you in civil life, Baby? A Suffragette? _Skewbald_. No, I wasn't, so there. _Bay_. No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. _N'est-ce pas, cherie_? Skewbald. Well, what if I did? There's scores of circus gals is puffect lydies. I don't require none of your familiarity any'ow, Mister. _Bay_. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless take your nose out of my hay net, please. _A Canadian dun_. Gee! quit weavin' about like that, Tubby. Can't you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute. Wazzer matter with you, anyhow? _Tubby_. Had a bad dream. _Black_. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself. _Bay_. Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? He's the only one that gets the chance. _Skewbald_. And the Officers' chargers. _Voice from over the way_. Well, we need it, don't we? We do all the bally headwork.