For an instant, a lump in Paddy's left cheek betrayed the whereabouts of his tongue. Then quietly he made answer, "Sure, little feller, it must have been the grace of Saint Patrick. Nobody else has ever took a hand in the training of me. But I'll back him against all the riding masters in London and Aldershot."
And the result showed that Paddy's confidence was not misplaced.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By midwinter, the war had become a series of guerrilla raids, of sweeping drives and of occasional skirmishes. The epoch of the infantry had passed, and it was the day of the mounted man. The home-going of the great Field Marshal, six months before, had been followed by the return to England of transports loaded with foot soldiers. The hour, the country and the enemy all demanded the man on the horse. With Lord Kitchener in the field and the colonies aiding the mother country, the outcome was only a matter of time; but few could as yet say when the fulness of that time should be at hand.
"But it leaves me a good deal puzzled in my mind," Weldon said thoughtfully.
"How do you mean?" Ethel Dent threw the question at him a little defiantly.
"About going home."
"Surely, you aren't going now?"
He winced at the accent.