He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jack-boots, vicious
spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long
whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like DIAVOLO, the
lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire.

His victims, a dozen Infantry officers, circle slowly round the
_manège_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came
out with WELLINGTON and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink
at the Riding-Master and he winks back at them.

The audience consists of an ancient Gaul in picturesque blue pants,
whose _métier_ is to totter round the meadows brushing flies off a
piebald cow; the School Padre, who keeps at long range so that he may
see the sport without hearing the language, and ten little _gamins_,
who have been splashing in the silver stream and are now sitting
drying on the bank like ten little toads.

They come every afternoon, for never have they seen such fun, never
since the great days before the War when the circus with the boxing
kangaroo and the educated porks came to town.

Suddenly the Riding-Master clears his throat. At the sound thereof the
horses cock their ears and their riders grab handfuls of leather and
hair.

_R.-M._ "Now, gentlemen, mind the word. Gently away tra-a-a-at."
The horses break into a slow jog-trot and the cavaliers into a cold
perspiration. The ten little _gamins_ cheer delightedly.