“Yes, but one minute, Lom—”
“Sergeant Lomax, sir.”
“Yes, Sergeant Lomax. I say, do let me have a saddle.”
“What for, sir?”
“It’s so much more comfortable.”
“A soldier, sir, is a man who scorns comfort and takes things as they come. You’ve got to learn to ride.”
“Of course. Then where’s the saddle?”
“When you can ride well without a saddle, you shall have one. Now: no more talking. ’Tention! By your right—March!”
The horse started off without my influencing him in the slightest degree, but before we had got ten yards, the sergeant’s stern “Halt!” rang out again, and the horse stopped as suddenly as before, but I was aware of it this time, and gripped him hard with my knees.
“Good. Well done. But you went too far forward. Take a good hold with your knees. And that’s not the way to hold your reins. Look here, one rein—no, no, not the curb—the snaffle—that’s it now—one rein outside your little finger and one in, and the rest of the rein through your hand, between your forefinger and thumb. Good. Now pick up the curb rein off your horse’s neck and let it rest lightly in your hand.”