"Get off that mare's neck, Number Seven, and try ridin' in the saddle for a change; it'll be more comfortable for everybody.
"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 "A Berlin! A Berlin!"
The ancient Gaul props himself up against the piebald cow and shakes his ancient head. "C'est la guerre," he croaks.
The deserted Riding-Master damns his eyes and blesses his soul for a few moments; then sighs resignedly, takes a cigarette from his cap lining, lights it and waddles off towards the village and his favourite estaminet.