‘Legs well down, heels in line with the shoulders, toes raised, back well hollowed in! Now, you Wilson fellow, sit up; man, you’re like a sack of bran tied up ugly! Sit up, the horse’s back won’t break.’
Wilson tried his best, but he made a sorry show.
‘Now we’ll try a trot. Keep your heads well up, press your knees in, let the horses throw you up and down, and ride by the balance of your bodies! But, mind, don’t lose your position or jerk the horses’ mouths!’
‘Trot!’
What a sight was there. As the horses trotted round the men wobbled about, and several looked absolutely scared.
‘Knees in, heads up!’ shouted the instructor. ‘You, Wilson, hold on!’
Wilson obeyed by completely losing his balance, then clinging wildly round the horse’s neck, one leg across the animal’s back, the other toe just hopping along on the ground.
‘Oh you dashed tailor! oh you cobbler!’ roared the sergeant. ‘Why didn’t you join the Militia. Who sent you here for a Lancer?’
Poor Wilson rolled over on the tan, the horses stepping gingerly over him.
‘How dare you dismount?’ asked the sergeant.