Among the Carriages.
Mrs. Prattleton. Yes, so sad for him, poor dear; but of course whenever his father dies, he'll be quite comfortable. (Recognising a military acquaintance.) Oh, Captain Clinker, do come and tell me what they're supposed to be doing out there, and whether they've begun yet.
Capt. Clinker (R.A.). Nothin' much goin' on at present. Ah, they seem to be wakin' up now a bit. (As the band strikes up.) There's the general salute; now they're goin' to make a start.
Mrs. Pratt. Who is that little man in the baggy black frock, rather like a dressing-gown, and the cocked hat; and why is he galloping out here?
Capt. C. He's the inspectin' officer; takin' up his position for the march past, don't you know.
Mrs. Pratt. Oh; and they're all going to march past him. How nice! But there's another officer in a cocked hat; is he inspecting, too?
Capt. C. Only their tongues; he's the regimental Pill—the doctor, you know.
Mrs. Pratt. (disenchanted). I quite thought he must be a general at least. Dear me, there's one man in a red coat and a helmet. What is he doing here?
Capt. C. That's the adjutant.
Mrs. Pratt. Oh; and the adjutant always wears a helmet. I see. They've hung red silk round the kettledrums; (pleased) that's real soldiering, isn't it?
Officers (as the regiment marches past by squadrons). Right whe-eel! Eyes right! For-ward! Dress up to your leaders there!
Capt. C. (with languid approbation). The dressin's not half bad.
Mrs. Pratt. No, they're dressed very like Hussars—or is it Artillery I mean? I always had an idea the Yeomanry wore comic uniforms—with shirt-collars, you know, and old-fashioned milk-pail hats with feathers and things. But (disappointedly) there's nothing ridiculous about these. What a frisky animal that trumpeter is riding; look at him caracoling about!
Capt. C. Trumpeters and serjeant-majors always the best mounted.
Mrs. Pratt. Are they? I wonder why that is. (As the regiment ranks by in single file.) But they've all got beautiful horses.
Capt. C. (critically). H'm, they're a fair-lookin' lot. Fall off a bit behind, some of 'em.
Mrs. Pratt. Do they? Then they can't be very good riders, can they?
Capt. C. These fellows? They ought to be; most of 'em, you see, hunt their horses regularly.
Mrs. Pratt. (with a mental vision of dismounted troopers chasing their chargers about the ground). What fun! I should like to see them do that. (As the regiment trots past in sections.) But they don't seem to come off over the trotting.
"'Twas onfortunate fur Garge, him bein' th' only man as fell arf."
Capt. C. Not quite; the leaders don't keep their distance, so the men can't keep up. Still, considering how short a time they've been out, you can't expect——
Mrs. Pratt. No; and they haven't tried to gallop yet, have they? Some of the horses are cantering now, though; it looks so much nicer than if they all trotted, I think.
Capt. C. Don't fancy their Colonel would agree with you there.
Mrs. Pratt. What a shame to keep those poor soldiers out there all by themselves; they don't have any fun, and they only get in the way of the others when they turn round. Oh, look at them now—they're all coming straight at us, and waving their swords!
Capt. C. Pursuin' practice at the gallop; doin' it rather decently, too.
Mrs. Pratt. But do you think we're safe just here? Suppose they can't stop themselves in time!
Capt. C. No danger of that; too heavily bitted to get out of hand.... There, you see, they're all wheelin' round. That'll be the wind up. Yes, they're drawn up in line; officers called to the front. Now the inspecting officer is makin' a few remarks, butterin' 'em up all round, you know. It's all over.
Mrs. Pratt. Really? It's been a great success, hasn't it? I enjoy a review so much better when they don't have any horrid firing. Don't you?
[Captain Clinker assents, to save trouble.