The Superintendent's servant, Constable Blythe, was laying out his master's mess uniform. The hour was six o'clock in the evening. A fortnight had passed since the holding of the concert.
Constable Blythe was a man of middle age and not ill-looking, originally hailing from some one of Her Majesty's far-flung Dominions—no-one knew which. Like many other Mounted Policeman, he had adventured into a thousand strange places and a dozen queer trades before joining the Force. Of these earlier phases of his history, little was known. But full details of his service in Her Majesty's forces, which he had embellished for many years in other climes, were available to those who sought them. And Blythe, though of a naturally silent disposition, had no aversion to furnishing these details. In fact, when introduced to the riding-school, he had proclaimed them at full voice. The horse had gently removed him.
"Here, I thought you said you could ride?" thundered the riding master.
"What, me?" shrieked Blythe indignantly. "I'm a marine, Gord boil yer, not a cent-ure!" (He possibly meant 'centaur').
Result: brought up before the C.O.—who happened to be Hector—for using insubordinate language to his superior officer.
"I can't ride, sir!" he had pleaded tearfully—for a Blythe, he was at all times the most lugubrious man in the world—"They don't have 'em on board ship. I'm a Royal Marine, sir!"
"Then you shouldn't have joined a mounted corps." Hector's lips closed like a vise. "C.B. and more riding for you, my lad."
But when Blythe had demonstrated his point conclusively by being bucked off for months on end, Hector at last took pity on him. A credit to the Royal corps, he did everything else beautifully and, like all Marines, knew the duties of an officer's servant backwards. That was four years ago. And Blythe had served him devotedly ever since.
Hector came in.
Blythe jumped to attention.