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[ 95] <hr style="width: 85%;" /> <h2>At the Military Tournament.</h2> Scene—The Agricultural Hall. Tent-pegging going on. Stentorian Judge (in Arena). Corporal Binks! (The Assistants give a finishing blow to the peg, and fall back. Corporal Binks gallops in, misses the peg, and rides off, relieving his feelings by whirling his lance defiantly in the air.) Corporal Binks—nothing! A Gushing Lady. Poor dear thing! I do wish he'd struck it! He did look so disappointed, and so did that sweet horse! The Judge. Sergeant Spanker! (Sergeant S. gallops in, spears the peg neatly, and carries it off triumphantly on the point of the lance, after which he rides back and returns the peg to the Assistants as a piece of valuable property of which he has accidentally deprived them.) Sergeant Spanker—eight! (Applause; the Assistants drive in another peg.) Corporal Cutlash! (Corporal C. enters, strikes the peg, and dislodges without securing it. Immense applause from the Crowd.) Corporal Cutlash—two! The Gushing Lady. Only two, and when he really did hit the peg! I do call that a shame. I should have given him more marks than the other man—he has such a much nicer face! A Child with a Thirst for Information. Uncle, why do they call it tent-pegging? The Uncle. Why? Well, because those pegs are what they fasten down tents with. The Child. But why isn't there a tent now? Uncle. Because there's no use for one. Child. Why?[ 96] Uncle. Because all they want to do is to pick up the peg with the point of their lance. Child. Yes, but why should they want to do it? Uncle. Oh, to amuse their horses. (The Child ponders upon this answer with a view to a fresh catechism upon the equine passion for entertainment, and the desirability, or otherwise, of gratifying it.) A Chatty Man in the Promenade (to his Neighbour). Takes a deal of practice to strike them pegs fair and full. His Neighbour (who holds advanced Socialistic opinions). Ah, I dessay—and a pity they can't make no better use o' their time! Spoiling good wood, I call it. I don't see no point in it myself. The Chatty Man. Well, it shows they can ride, at any rate. The Socialist. Ride? O' course they can ride—we pay enough for 'aving 'em taught, don't we? But you mark my words, the People won't put up with this state of things much longer—keepin' a set of 'ired murderers in luxury and hidleness. I tell yer, wherever I come across one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if he was one of the lords of the hearth, well—it makes my nose bleed, ah—it does! The Chatty Man. If that's the way you talk to him, I ain't surprised if it do. The Judge. Sword versus Sword! Come in there! (Two mounted Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with swordsticks, enter the ring; Judge introduces them to audience with the aid of a flag.) Corporal Jones, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant Smith, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (Their swords are chalked by the Assistants.) Are you ready? Left turn! Countermarch! Engage! (The Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account, and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in with a rattling blow on the other's head, to the intense delight of audience. Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked, whereupon they engage once more—much to the disgust of their horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over. After the contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants[ 97] enter; one is mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation.) Go on—that black horse—go on! (The chestnut is at length brought up to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his rider.) The Crowd (to rider of black horse). Go on, now's your chance! 'It him! (The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional scrutiny.) The Judge. Here, you on the black horse, you mustn't hit that other horse about the head. (The man addressed appears rebuked and surprised under his black-wired visor.) The Judge (reassuringly). It's all right, you know; only, don't do it again, that's all! (The Combatant sits up again.) The Gushing Lady. Oh, I can't bear to look on, really. I'm sure they oughtn't to hit so hard—how their poor dear heads must ache! Isn't that chestnut a duck? I'm sure he's trying to save his master from getting hurt—they're such sensible creatures, horses are! (Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring with laughter when one is knocked over.) DURING THE MUSICAL RIDE. The Gushing Lady. Oh, they're simply too sweet! How those horses are enjoying it—aren't they pets? and how perfectly they keep step to the music, don't they? Her Friend. (who is beginning to get a trifle tired by her enthusiasm). Yes; but then they're all trained by Madame Katti Lanner, of Drury Lane, you see. The Gushing Lady. What pains she must have taken with them; but you can teach a horse anything, can't you? Her Friend. Oh, that's nothing; next year they're going to have a horse who'll dance the Highland Fling. The Socialist. A pretty sight? Cost a pretty sight o' the People's[ 98] money, I know that. Tomfoolery, that's what it is; a set of dressed-up bullies dancin' quadrilles on 'orseback; that ain't military manoeuvrin'. It's sickenin' the way fools applaud such goin's on. And cuttin' off the Saracen's 'ed, too; I'd call it plucky if the Saracen 'ad a gun in his 'and. Bah, I 'ate the 'ole business! His Neighbour. Got anybody along with you, Mate? The Socialist. No, I don't want anybody along with me, I don't. His Neighbour. That's a pity, that is. A sweet-tempered, pleasant-spoken party like you are oughtn't to go about by yourself. You ought to bring somebody just to enjoy your conversation. There don't seem to be anybody 'ere of your way of thinkin'. DURING THE COMBINED DISPLAY. The Gushing Lady (as the Cyclist Corps enter). Oh, they've got a dog with them. Do look—such a dear! See, they've tied a letter round his neck. He'll come back with an answer presently. (But, there being apparently no answer to this communication, the faithful but prudent animal does not re-appear.) AFTER THE PERFORMANCE. The Inquisitive Child. Uncle, which side won? UNCLE. I suppose the side that advanced across the bridges. Child. Which side would have won if it had been a real battle? Uncle. I really couldn't undertake to say, my boy. Child. But which do you think would have won? Uncle. I suppose the side that fought best. Child. But which side was that? (The Uncle begins to find that the society of an intelligent Nephew entails too severe a mental strain to be <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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