"You see, they really have such a lot of men," said Lancelot, watching his mother hang upon his words, "and they don't mind losing them, and then they have so many guns."
"Was it shrapnel or a bullet, poor Lancelot?" inquired Mrs. O'Gorman, clasping her stout hands.
Lancelot murmured "Field gun" in rather embarrassed tones and a little sulkily.
"A 'Jack Johnson' shell," Mrs. O'Gorman passed back, "and it didn't blow his foot off. You must have had a very strong boot, Lancelot dear."
Here General Brownlow backed away, struggling with a cough which seemed to have got out of control.
"And did you really bring the cart, Lancelot," asked Matilda Freyne, riding up, "as a souvenir? The cart which went on your poor toe, Gheena said."
Lancelot, his interesting pallor swallowed by a wave of fiery red, replied haughtily that no cart had gone over his toe, and glared at Gheena.
That damsel was employed in adjusting the young bay horse's bridle, and offering him to the General's man as one would a spoon to a child with strawberry jam but rhubarb underneath.
"Just saw the bits across, Hook, if he pulls very hard down hill. He won't pull going up. If he kicks, try to jerk his head up. He often rears instead, you know. And don't be afraid if he flies small fences; he won't fall. Just be careful the first time he gets his feet on to grass; he sobers down wonderfully when he's gone for a little."
The General's man grinned softly, landed lightly into the saddle, and got the young horse's head up with a determination which gave that high-spirited youngster quite a shock. The bay, christened Redbird—all Gheena's horses were birds, she said—observed that there was little room for him to play in, so settled down decorously to walk up and down with the other horses.