rved that his charge had suddenly laid his ears back. But being
something of a chiropodist he was studying the way Tommy put his foot to
the ground, for he suspected corns. The next moment Driver Hawkins found
himself lying in a heap of straw on the opposite side of the stable.
Tommy had suddenly lashed out, and landed him one on the left shoulder.
Driver Hawkins picked himself up, more grieved than hurt. He looked at
Tommy with pained surprise.

"I feeds yer," he said reproachfully, "I waters yer, I grooms yer, I
stays from my dinner to dry yer, and what do I get for it? Now I ask
yer?" Tommy was looking round at him with eyes of guileless innocence.

"What do I get for it?" he repeated argumentatively. "I gets a blooming
kick."

"Blooming" is a euphemism. The adjective Hawkins actually used was, as a
matter of fact, closely associated with the exercise of the reproductive
functions, and cannot be set down here.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Hawkins, saluting, as he caught sight of the
Major and myself who had entered the stable at that moment. The Major
was trying hard to repress a smile. "Go on with your catechism,
Hawkins," he said. It was evident that Hawkins belonged to the Moral
Education League, and believed in suasion rather than punishment for
the repression of vice.

"I suppose you're fond of your horses, Hawkins?" I said unguardedly. But
no R.F.A. driver wears his heart on his sleeve, and Hawkins's reply was
disconcerting. "I 'ates 'em, sir," he whispered to me as the Major
turned his back; "I'm a maid-of-all-work to them 'orses. They gives me
'ousemaid's knee, and my back do ache something cruel."

"He doesn't, though," said the Major, who had overheard this auricular
confidence. We had left the stable. "Our drivers are mighty fond of
their horses--and proud of them too. It's quite an infatuation in its
way. But come and see the O.T.C. We've got them down here for the
weekend, by way of showing them the evolutions of a battery. They've got
their instructor, an N.C.O. who's been dug out for the job, and I've
lent him two of the guns to put them through their paces. He's quite
priceless--a regular chip of the old Army block."

"Now, sir," the sergeant was saying, "get them into single file." They
were to change from Battery Column to Column of Route.

"Battery...!" began the cadet in a piping voice.

"As y' were," interjected the sergeant in mild expostulation. "You've
got to get it off your chest, sir.