n old "Sit-Back" had been that Dam was a worthless
"back-to-the-Army-again" when he found him a finished horseman, an
extraordinarily expert swordsman, and a master of the lance.

"You aren't old enough for a 'time-expired,'" he mused, "nor for a
cashiered officer. One of the professional 'enlist-desert-and-sell-me-kit,'
I suppose. Anyhow you'll do time for one of the three if _I_ don't
approve of ye.... You've been in the Cavalry before. Lancer regiment,
too. Don't tell _me_ lies ... but see to it that I'm satisfied with your
conduct. Gentlemen-rankers are better in their proper place--_Jail_." ...

None the less it had given Dam a thrill of pride when, on being
dismissed recruit-drills and drafted from the reserve troop to a
squadron, the Adjutant had posted him to E Troop, wherein were
congregated the seven other undoubted gentlemen-rankers of the Queen's
Greys (one of whom would one day become a peer of the realm and,
meantime, followed what he called "the only profession in the world"
in discomfort for a space, the while his Commission ripened).

To this small band of "rankers" the accession of the finest boxer,
swordsman, and horseman in the corps, was invaluable, and helped them
notably in their endeavour to show that there are exceptions to all
rules, and that a gentleman _can_ make a first-class trooper. At least
so "Peerson" had said, and Dam had been made almost happy for a day.

Memories ...!

His first walk abroad from barracks, clad in the "walking-out" finery
of shell-jacket and overalls, with the jingle of spurs and effort at
the true Cavalry swagger, or rather the first attempt at a walk
abroad, for the expedition had ended disastrously ere well begun.
Unable to shake off his admirer, Trooper Herbert Hawker, Dam had just
passed the Main Guard and main gates in the company of Herbert, and
the two recruits had encountered the Adjutant and saluted with the
utmost smartness and respect....

"What the Purple Hell's that thing?" had drawled the Adjutant
thereupon--pointing his whip at Trooper Henry Hawker, whose trap-like
mouth incontinent fell open with astonishment. "It's got up in an
imitation of the uniform of the Queen's Greys, I do believe!... It's
not a rag doll either.... It's a God-forsaken undertaker's mute in a
red and black shroud with a cake-tin at the back of its turnip head
and a pair of chemises on its ugly hands.... Sergeant of the Guard!...
Here!"

"Sir?" and a salute of incredible p