ferocious-looking protégé, and beneath his skilful massage Hyldebrand
would throw himself upon the ground and guggle in a porcine ecstacy.

One sunny afternoon, when there had come upon the little village street
the inevitable hush which preceded Hyldebrand's hour for exercise, I
espied the village cripple making for his home with the celerity of an A
1 man. He glared reproachfully at me, and, with an exclamation of
"_Sacré sanglier!_" vanished in the open doorway of the local
boulangerie, that being nearer than his cottage. Then came Hyldebrand,
froth on his snout and murder in his little eyes, and after him
Isinglass more than living up to his equine namesake. I joined him, and,
following Hyldy in a cloud of dust, the runner informed me between gasps
that it was "along of burning his snout-raking for a bully-beef tin in
the insinuator."

A band outside B Mess was nearing the climax of GRIEG'S "Peer Gynt"
suite. Hyldebrand just failed to perpetrate the time-worn gag of jumping
through the big drum, but he contrived to make that final crashing chord
sound like the last sneeze of a giant dying of hay-fever. The rest the
crowd saw through a film of dust. Hyldebrand headed for the turning by
the school, reached it as the gates opened to release young France, and
comedy would have turned to tragedy but for the point duty M.P. and his
revolver.

There was a note and a parcel for me a day or so after. The note, which
was addressed to and had been opened by the T.M., stated that Hyldebrand
was being sent for by the Heatherdale Hussars on the morrow. Outside the
parcel was scrawled, above the initials of the G.H.Q. officers' cook, a
friend of mine, "It's top hole--try it with a drop of sauce." Inside was
a cold pork chop!