_The Chatty Man_. Well, it shows they can _ride_, at any rate.

_The Socialist_. Ride? O' course they can _ride_--we pay enough for
'aving 'em taught, don't we? But you mark my words, the People won't
put up with this state of things much longer--keepin' a set of 'ired
murderers in luxury and hidleness. I tell yer, wherever I come across
one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if
he was one of the lords of the hearth, well--it makes my nose bleed,
ah--it _does_!

_The Chatty Man_. If that's the way you talk to him, I ain't surprised
if it do.

_The Judge_. Sword _versus_ Sword! Come in, there! (_Two mounted
Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with
sword-sticks, 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