R.M. 'Alt! Every Gentleman take his feet out of the stirrups, and cross them on the saddle in front of him. Not your feet, Mr. SNIGGERS, we ain't Turks 'ere!
Mr. S. (sotto voce). "There's one bloomin' Turk 'ere, anyway!"
R.M. Now then,—Walk!... Trot! Set back, Gentlemen, set back all—'old on by your knees, not the pommels. I see you, Mr. JELLY, kitchin' 'old o' the mane—I shall 'ave to give you a 'ogged 'orse next time you come. Quicken up a bit—this is a ride, not a funeral. Why, I could roll faster than you're trotting! Lor, you're like a row o' Guy Foxes on 'orseback, you are! Ah, I thought I'd see one o' you orf! Goa-ron, all o' you, you don't come 'ere to play at ridin'—I'll make you ride afore I've done with you! 'Ullo, Mr. JOGGLES, nearly gone that time, Sir! There, that'll do—or we'll 'ave all your saddles to let unfurnished. Wa-alk! Mr. BILBOW-KAY, when your 'orse changes his pace sudden, it don't look well for you to be found settin' 'arf way up his neck, and it gives him a bad opinion of yer, Sir. Uncross sterrups! Trot on! It ain't no mortal use your clucking to that mare, Mr. TONGS, Sir, because she don't understand the langwidge—touch her with your 'eel in the ribs. Mr. SNIGGERS, that 'orse is doin' jest what he likes with you. 'It 'im, Sir; he's no friends and few relations!
Mr. S. (with spirit). I ain't going to 'it 'im. If you want him 'it, get up and do it yourself!
R.M. When I say "Circle Right"—odd numbers'll wheel round and fall in be'ind even ones. Circle Right!... Well, if ever I—I didn't tell yer to fall off be'ind. Ketch your 'orses and stick to 'em next time. Right In-cline! O' course, Mr. JOGGLES, if you prefer takin' that animal for a little ride all by himself, we'll let you out in the streets—otherwise p'raps you'll kindly follow yer leader. Captin CROPPER, Sir, if you let that curb out a bit more, Reindeer wouldn't be 'arf so narsty with yer ... Ah, now you 'ave done it. You want your reins painted different colours and labelled, Sir, you do. 'Alt, the rest of you.... Now, seein' you're shook down in your saddles a bit—["Shook up's more like it!" from Mr. S.]—we'll 'ave the 'urdles in and show you a bit o' Donnybrook! (The Class endeavours to assume an air of delighted anticipation at this pleasing prospect.) (To Assistant R.M., who has entered and said something in an undertone.) Eh, Captin 'EDSTALL here, and wants to try the grey cob over 'urdles? Ask him if he'll come in now—we're just going to do some jumping.
Assist. R.M. This lot don't look much like going over 'urdles—'cept in front o' the 'orse, but I'll tell the Captin.
[The hurdles are brought in and propped up. Enter a well-turned-out Stranger, on a grey cob.
Mr. Sniggers (to him.) You ain't lost nothing by coming late, I can tell yer. We've bin having a gay old time in 'ere—made us ride without sterrups, he did!
Capt. Headstall. Haw, really? Didn't pet grassed, did you?
Mr. S. Well, me and my 'orse separated by mutual consent. I ain't what you call a fancy 'orseman. We've got to go at that 'urdle in a minute. How do you like the ideer, eh? It's no good funking it—it's got to be done!