THE JUDGE. Sword _versus_ Sword! Come in there! (_Two mounted Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with swordsticks, enter the ring_; JUDGE _introduces them to audience with the aid of a flag_.) Corporal JONES, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant SMITH, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (_Their swords are chalked by the Assistants._) Are you ready? Left turn! Countermarch! Engage! (_The Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account, and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in with a rattling blow on the other's head, to the intense delight of audience. Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked, whereupon they engage once more--much to the disgust of their horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over. After the contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants_ _enter; one is mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation._) Go on--that black horse--go on! (_The chestnut is at length brought up to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his rider._) THE CROWD (_to rider of black horse_). Go on, now's your chance! 'It him! (_The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional scrutiny._) THE JUDGE. Here, you on the black horse, you mustn't hit that other horse about the head. (_The man addressed appears rebuked and surprised under his black-wired visor._) THE JUDGE (_reassuringly_). It's all _right_, you know; only, don't do it again, that's all! (_The Combatant sits up again._) THE GUSHING LADY. Oh, I can't bear to look on, really. I'm _sure_ they oughtn't to hit so hard--_how_ their poor dear heads must ache! Isn't that chestnut a _duck_? I'm sure he's trying to save his master from getting hurt--they're such sensible creatures, horses are! (_Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring with laughter when one is knocked over._) DURING THE MUSICAL RIDE. THE GUSHING LADY. Oh, they're simply too _sweet_! How those horses are enjoying it--aren't they pets? and how perfectly they keep step to the music, don't they? HER FRIEND. (_who is beginning to get a trifle tired by her enthusiasm_). Yes; but then they're all trained by Madame Katti Lanner, of Drury Lane, you see. THE GUSHING LADY. What pains she must have taken with them; but you can teach a horse _anything_, can't you?