up of
comrades I related in full my adventures. Our sergeant-major, who is a
very good sort, was telling me that it would be all right, when the
regimental sergeant-major came up and told me that he must put me under
arrest for shooting my horse without permission, destroying Government
property (Article 301754, Par. 703, or something like that). There was
none of the pomp about the affair which I should have liked to see--no
chains, no fixed bayonets, or loaded rifles. Our sergeant-major, without
even removing his pipe, said "Ross, you are a prisoner," and I replied
"Righto," and proceeded to inquire when the autocrats of the cook-house
would have tea ready. A few days later, I was brought before the
beak--the officer in command of our squadron. "Quick march. Halt, left
turn. Salute." This being done, the case was stated. The
farrier-sergeant told the requisite number of lies. I denied them, but
of course admitted shooting the beggar. Dirty, unwashed, unkempt,
unshaven, ragged wretch that I looked, I daresay on a charge of
double-murder, bigamy and suicide, I should have fared ill. The captain
gave me what I suppose was a severe reprimand, told me that probably in
Pretoria I should have to pay something, and said he would have to take
away my stripe, so down it went, "reduced to the ranks." "Salute! Right
turn," etc. Thus, did your humble servant lose the Field Marshal's baton
which he had so long been carrying in his haversack. Alas, how are the
mighty fallen! Tell it in Hastings and whisper it in St. Leonards if you
will, like that dear old reprobate Mulvaney, "I was a corp'ril wanst,
but aftherwards I was rejooced," _Vive l'Armee! Vive la Yeomanrie!_ All
the fellows were intensely sympathetic, and indeed, one or two
particular friends seemed far more aggrieved than myself. I ripped off
my stripe at once, and tossed it in our bivouac fire, and joined the
small legion of ex-lance corporals of the Sussex Squadron (five in
number).

[Illustration: Some of "the pomp & circumstance of Glorious War."]

"Or ever the blooming war was done,
Or I had ceased to roam;
I was a slave in Africa,
And you were a toff at home."

Hullo! When it comes to poetry it is time to conclude.

P.S.--My costume is holier than ever. Still, I find every cloud has a
silver lining (though my garments possess none of any kind,
unfortunately). The great advantage of the present state of one's
clothes is this, if you want to scra