ing with silent wrath at the "choke-off," with difficulty Redmond
held his peace. In silence they saddled up and leading the horses out
prepared to mount. Yorke swung up on the splendid, mettled
black--"Parson." He had an ideal cavalry seat, and as with an easy grace
he gently controlled his impatient horse, with an inscrutable, mask-like
countenance he watched Redmond and the sorrel "Fox."

With toe in the leather-covered stirrup the latter reached for the
saddle-horn. Poor George! fuming inwardly over one humiliation caused
him shortly to be the recipient of another. Too late to his preoccupied
mind came Slavin's warning of the day before.

Like a flash the sorrel whirled to the "off-side" and Redmond, swung off
his balance, revolved into space and was pitched on his hands and knees
in the snow. Fortunately his foot had slipped clear of the stirrup. In
this somewhat ignominious position dizzily he heard Yorke's mocking tones:

"What are the odds on Fox, bookie? . . . I'd like a few of those dollars
when you've quite finished picking them all up."

With an almost superhuman effort the young fellow controlled himself once
more as he arose. Not lightly had he given a promise. Silently he
dusted the snow from his uniform and strode over to where the sorrel
awaited him. The horse had made no attempt to run away; apparently being
an old hand at the game. It now stood eying its dupe, with Lord knows
what mirth tickling its equine brain.

Slipping the "nigh" rein through the saddle-fork, then back to the
cheek-strap again, George snubbed Fox's head towards him, making it
impossible for the horse to whirl to the "off" as before. Warily and
quietly he then swung into the saddle and the two men set off.

A few yards from the front of the detachment Yorke suddenly pulled up
and, dismounting, felt around in the snow at the base of a
well-remembered telephone-pole. It was Redmond's hour to jeer now, if he
had been mindful to do so. But another usurped that privilege.

A queer choking sound made them both turn round. Slavin, his grim face
registering unholy mirth, lounged in the doorway.

"Fwhat ye lukkin for, Yorkey?"

"Oh, nothing!" came that gentleman's answer.

"Ye'll find ut in th' bottle thin."

Insult was added to injury by the sergeant casually plucking that article
from it's "rist" and chucking it over.

Yorke's face was a study. "Oh!" cried he dismally, "what wit! . . . give
three rousing chee