alleged soul to Dicky Bridoon for a feathery hat and a pair o' gilt spurs. Jules, conspuez l'oncle!" So Jules, you'll be glad to hear'
'One minute, Pye,' I said. 'Who is Dicky Bridoon?'
'I don't usually mingle myself up with the bickerings of the Junior Service, but it trarnspired that he was Secretary o' State for Civil War, an' he'd been issuing mechanical leather-belly gee-gees which doctors recommend for tumour—to the British cavalry in loo of real meat horses, to learn to ride on. Don't you remember there was quite a stir in the papers owing to the cavalry not appreciatin' 'em? But that's a minor item. The main point was that our uncle, in his capacity of brigadier-general, mark you, had wrote to the papers highly approvin' o' Dicky Bridoon's mechanical substitutes an 'ad thus obtained promotion—all same as a agnosticle stoker psalm-singin' 'imself up the Service under a pious captain. At that point of the narrative we caught a phosphorescent glimmer why the rocking-horse might have been issued; but none the less the navigation was intricate. Omitting the fact it was dark and cloudy, our brigadier-uncle lay somewhere in the South Downs with his brigade, which was manœuvrin' at Whitsun manœuvres on a large scale—Red Army versus Blue, et cetera; an' all we 'ad to go by was those flapping bicycle-maps and your Mr. Leggatt's groans.'
'I was thinking what the Downs mean after dark,' said Leggatt angrily.
'They was worth thinkin' of,' said Pyecroft.
