G. I know it is, worse than that. I don't care. You've ridden Van Loo. Is he the sort of brute to pick his way—'specially when we're coming up in column of troop with any pace on?
M. Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in column of troop, and then only to save time. Aren't three lengths enough for you?
G. Yes—quite enough. They just allow for the full development of the smash. I'm talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you that, for the past three months, I've felt every hoof of the squadron in the small of my back every time that I've led.
M. But, Gaddy, this is awful!
G. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it royal? A Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his charger before parade like the blasted boozing Colonel of a Black Regiment!
M. You never did!
G. Once only. He squelched like a mussuck, and the Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked his eye at me. You know old Haffy's eye. I was afraid to do it again.
M. I should think so. That was the best way to rupture old Van Loo's tummy, and make him crumple you up. You knew that.
G. I didn't care. It took the edge off him.
M. 'Took the edge off him'? Gaddy, you—you—you mustn't, you know! Think of the men.