_Chestnut_. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that he'd buy a haystack some day and try to burst you, Tubby. The Sergeant bet him a month's pay it couldn't be done. _Tubby_. Just because I've got a healthy appetite---- _Brown_. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this season, Sir--bad form. How are the politicians' park hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don't tighten his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear; eat less oats. _Chestnut_. That mess gramophone must be redhot by now. It's been running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles last. _Monty_. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a _camouflage_ tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill. _Iron-grey_. God save us, thin! _A Mexican roan_. _Buenas noches!_ _Gunpack horse_. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles. _Monty_. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. _Bong swar_. * * * * * * * * _Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."_ X "CONVEY," THE WISE IT CALL I am living at present in one of those villages in which the retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. With characteristic thoroughness he fired it first, then blew it up, and has been shelling it ever since. What with one thing and another, it is in an advanced state of dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has the map's word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of brick-dust saying that the Town Major may be found within, the casual wayfarer might imagine himself in the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of Kingsway.