wanted to shout, to laugh--to _cry_. (It made one's mouth twitch and
chin work.)

Oh, to _lead_ the regiment as Father did--horse and man one welded
piece of living mechanism.

Father said you couldn't ride till you had taken a hundred tosses,
been pipped a hundred times. A hundred falls! Surely Father had
_never_ been thrown--it must be impossible for such a rider to come
off. See him at polo.

By his sixth birthday Damocles de Warrenne, stout and sturdy, was an
accomplished rider and never so happy (save when fencing) as when
flogging his active and spirited little pony along the "rides" or over
the dusty _maidans_ and open country of Bimariabad. To receive a
quarter-mile start on the race-course and ride a mile race against
Khodadad Khan on his troop-horse, or with one of the syces on one of
the Colonel's polo-ponies, or with some obliging male or female early
morning rider, was the joy of his life. Should he suspect the
competitor of "pulling" as he came alongside, that the tiny pony might
win, the boy would lash at both horses impartially.

People who pitied him (and they were many) wondered as to how soon he
would break his neck, and remonstrated with his father for allowing
him to ride alone, or in charge of an attendant unable to control him.

In the matter of his curious love of fencing Major John Decies was
deeply concerned, obtained more and more details of his "dweam,"
taught him systematically and scientifically to fence, bought him
foils and got them shortened. He also interested him in a series of