“Here’s to good old beer, put it down, put it down!”
“The cavalry came into its own in the last lap. We’ve fought mounted and fought dismounted. We’ve rounded up innumerable Huns. We’ve ridden down machine-guns——”
Another group was singing independently:
“There’s a long, long trail a-winding,
To the land of my dreams.”
A toast was being pledged at the next table by a Tank officer, who stood on a chair with a glass of champagne-raised high above his head: “Gentlemen, I give you the toast of the Tank Corps. This war was won by the Tanks——”
“Pull him down!” shouted two lads at the same table. “Tanks be damned! It was the poor old bloody infantry all the time.”
One of them pulled down the little Tank officer with a crash and stood on his own chair.
“Here’s to the foot-sloggers—the infantry battalions, Tommy Atkins and his company officer, who did all the dirty work and got none of the reward, and did most of the dying.”
A cavalry officer with a monocle immovably screwed in his right eye demanded the attention of the company, and failed to get it.