e,
however, was a high-spirited chestnut thoroughbred, very pretty, very
lively and neck-reined. It had once belonged to an Indian general, and
was partly Arab. Poor Dandy was my constant companion to the end.
After the Armistice, to prevent his being sold to the Belgian army, he
was mercifully shot, by the orders of our A.D.V.S. Dandy certainly was
a beauty, and his lively disposition made him interesting to ride. I
was able now to do much more parish visiting, and I was rather amused
at the way in which my mount was inspected by the different grooms in
our units. I had to stand the fire of much criticism. Evil and
covetous eyes were set upon Dandy. I was told he was "gone" in the
knees. I was told he had a hump on the back--he had what is known as
the "Jumper's bump." Men tickled his back and, because he wriggled,
told me he was "gone" in the kidneys. I was told he was no proper
horse for a padre, but that a fair exchange was always open to me. I
was offered many an old transport hack for Dandy, and once was even
asked if I would change him for a pair of mules. I took all the
criticisms under consideration, and then when they were repeated I
told the men that really I loved to ride a horse with a hump on its
back. It was so biblical, just like riding a camel. As for bad
kidneys, both Dandy and I were teetotallers and we could arrest
disease by our temperance habits. The weakness of knees too was no
objection in my eyes. In fact, I had so long, as a parson, sat over
weak-kneed congregations that I felt quite at home sitting on a
weak-kneed horse.

Poor dear old Dandy, many were the rides we had together. Many (p. 091)
were the jumps we took. Many were the ditches we tumbled into. Many
were the unseen barbed wires and overhanging telephone wires which we
broke, you with your chest and I with my nose and forehead. Many were
the risks we ran in front of batteries in action which neither of us
had observed till we found ourselves deafened with a hideous explosion
and wrapped in flame. I loved you dearly, Dandy, and I wish I could
pull down your soft face towards mine once again, and talk of the
times when you took me down Hill 63 and along Hyde Park corner at
Ploegsteert. Had I not been wounded and sent back to England at the
end of the war, I would have brought you home with me to show to my
family--a friend that not merely uncomplainingly but cheerfully, with
prancing feet and arching neck and well groomed skin, bor