Poor silly Muggins. He had been Juggins indeed on that occasion, and, as the “ride” halted of its own accord in awed amazement, Dam had longed to tell him so and beg him to return to his place ere worse befell….
“I’ve ’ad enough, you bull-’eaded brute,” shouted poor Muggins, leaving his horse and advancing menacingly upon his (incalculably) superior officer, “an’ fer two damns I’d break yer b—— jaw, I would. You …”
Even as the Rough-Riding Corporal and two other men were dragging the struggling, raving recruit to the door, en route for the Guard-room, entered the great remote, dread Riding-Master himself.
“What’s this?” inquired Hon. Captain Style, Riding-Master of the Queen’s Greys, strict, kind-hearted martinet.
Salute, and explanations from the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major.
Torrent of accusation and incoherent complaint and threat from the baited Muggins.
“Mount that horse,” says the Riding-Master.
“I’ll go to Clink first,” gasps Muggins. “I’ll go to ’Ell first.”
“No. Afterwards,” replies the Riding-Master and sends the Rough-Riding Corporal for the backboard—dread instrument of equestrian persuasion.
Muggins is forcibly mounted, put in the lunging ring and sent round and round till he throws himself off at full gallop and lies crying and sobbing like a child—utterly broken.