"But the old tank gave a 'good-by-ee' cough of its exhaust and rumbled off as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. I have never seen such a look of surprise on any living creature's face as was on that donk's. He sank down on his tail, gave a hissing gasp and rolled over stone dead. Broken heart." "Is that the end?" Albert Edward inquired. "It is," said Monk; "and if you go outside and look half-right you'll see the bereaved Mr. O'Dwyer, all got up in sackcloth, cinders and _crêpe_ rosettes, mooning over the deceased like a dingo on an ash heap." XVI WAR PAINT After the 53rd Lancers had been in the trenches for seven days--during which period the Boches hated them ceaselessly with whizz-bangs, tear-shells, snipers, coal-boxes, hand and rifle grenades, spring guns, rifle batteries, machine-guns, gas and liquid fire; and something celestial leaked badly so that the front line gave a muddy imitation of the Grand Canal, Venice--the infantry relieved them and they came out looking like nothing on earth. They were marched into an ex-dye factory, boiled, fourteen in a vat, issued with a change of underclothes and marched on to billets. The 53rd being a smart regiment, they were given twenty-four hours to lick and polish themselves like unto the stars of the firmament for brightness, or never hear the last of it. In twenty-four hours they paraded again, according unto orders, and the stars of the firmament also ran. At noon the same day the party proceeding on Blighty leave was paraded for inspection by the Orderly Officer. Pending the arrival of the O.O., the Regimental Sergeant-Major gave them a preliminary look over. They were dressed by the right in file, chests thrown in the air, faces shiny with soap and pink from razoring. Every badge, buckle and button twinkled a challenge back at the sun, every spur shone like a bar of silver, their leatherwork gleamed with the polish bloom of a plum, their puttees and tunics were without spot or blemish, every cap raked slightly over every right ear. They were smart men of a smart regiment, whose boast it was that they lived and died glitteringly. The R.S.M. ran a grey foxy eye over and through them. At the sixth file from the right he paused, staggered, blanched, and broke into tears. The Regiment was disgraced, the name gloriously won by dashing generations of light cavalry men was gone for ever. Here was a Fifty-third proposing to go home and swank about England practically naked. Blankety blankety blank. O Lord! The sixth file went pea-green under his tan, instinctively felt for his top left-hand pocket button and did it up. The R.S.M. went on his way down the line, thrashing his leggings severely with his whip and shaking with emotion. Ten files further down he found a speck of brass polish lurking behind a belt-hook and didn't expect to survive it. Sixteenth file rubbed it off with a handkerchief, trembling all over.