"You oughter do cowboy stunts for the movin' pictures, Number Six, you
ought really. People would pay money to see you ride a norse upside
down like that. Got a strain of wild Cossack blood in you, eh?

"There you are, now you've been and fell off. Nice way to repay me for
all the patience an' learning I've given you!

"What are you lyin' there for? Day-dreaming? I s'pose you're goin' to
tell me you're 'urted now?' Be writing 'ome to Mother about it next:
'DEAR MA,--A mad mustang 'as trod on me stummick. Please send me a
gold stripe. Your loving child, ALGY.'

"Now mind the word. Ride--Can--ter!"

He cracks his whip; the horses throw up their heads and break into a
canter; the cavaliers turn pea-green about the chops, let go the reins
and clutch saddle-pommels.

The leading horse, a rakish chestnut, finding his head free at last
and being heartily fed-up with the whole business, suddenly bolts out
of the _manège_ and legs it across the meadow, _en route_ for stables
and tea. His eleven mates stream in his wake, emptying saddles as they
go.

The ten little _gamins_ dance ecstatically upon the bank, waving their
shirts and shrilling "_À Berlin! À Berlin!_"

The ancient Gaul props himself up against the pie-bald cow and shakes
his ancient head. "_C'est la guerre_," he croaks.