e them on, while the men in need of horses toiled
along on foot. Why they were not allotted on the day they were received
is only accounted for by the fact of our forming part of a British Army.
During the "telling-off" of our fellows to the various groups of sorry
nags, a comrade known as "Ed'ard" and I loafed in rear of the squadron
in hopes of coming last and finding no horses left. We did come last,
but there being eleven horses over, poor Ed'ard had six and I five
Argentines to lead, and the Recording Angel had a big job on.
Half-a-dozen rapid type-writers on his staff would have failed to cope
with the entries entailed by that day's work and discomfort. Some people
boast that they can be led, but not driven. The boast of my Argentines
was that they could be driven but not led. For about three hours I led,
or tried to lead them, at the end of which time my right, or leading
arm, was about four inches longer than my left, and once or twice quite
six. This was when a ditch or some such obstacle had to be overcome. My
own steed, having nobly negotiated it, two of the others would follow
his excellent example, and then the remaining three would pause on the
bank, irresolutely at first, and then quite determined not to "follow my
lead," in fact to never "follow me," would pull back a bit. Then a
lovely scramble would result, in which I would be hauled half-way back,
horse and all, and my rifle, instead of remaining properly slung, would
become excitable, and manage to hang round my neck or waist. Finally a
fairy godmother, in the form of a dirty, unshaven Tommy Atkins of the
line, would come to my assistance, and with a wave of his wand--I mean
rifle--and a thrust with the butt, my troubles for the moment would be
overcome. At last, with my right hand cut and sore, and a temper which
would have set the Thames a-fire, I let go the leathern thong by which I
had been endeavouring to lead them, and started driving them. Other
fellows also commenced to do the same, and after the brutes we raced,
inhaling dust, expectorating mud, and cursed by every transport officer.
Happy men, without horses to look after, were looting fowls and porkers,
for the district was a good one; but such was not for us luckless
Yeomen. Even when we got into camp we had to stand for nearly two hours
in the dark, looking after the brutes till some more Yeomanry, the
Roughs, relieved us, I cannot help it--it's the twelfth, and I must
_grouse_!

[Illust