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Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' a leak-proof roof. Tubby. Yes, with full meals coming regularly. A bay mare. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd like to see again. Monty. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself. Gunpack horse. Garn! Wot abaht good old London? Chestnut. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about?
Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill. Iron-grey. God save us, thin! A Mexican roan. Buenas noches! Gunpack horse. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles. Monty. Hush, you fellows.
A gunpack horse. Why? Chestnut. Wind up, sonny. Why, in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914 A black horse. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let WILLIAM'S own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you. A bay horse. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna.
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