"All right," from the officer in charge of the fair. “Bring on your best mount.”
The captain strides away. After a time the circle parts to admit him and his prize—a spring-kneed, mangy cob from the hospital. It takes two orderlies to support it. "Whoa!" cries the captain, and pats him gently as if to persuade him not to cut up.
He points to the new horse he has chosen, and instructs his orderly.
"Lead that fellow out. I think I'm getting stung, but I agreed to swop, and I will."
The orderly leaves the invalid, glancing back as if to make sure he hasn't toppled over. The other side of the exchange raises his voice.
"Like the deuce you'll swop. What did you bring that hat-rack here for?"
The captain's expression is of innocent surprise. "To trade with you as the order directed."
The other sneers.
“Thought you'd made a mistake and believed I was running a soap factory, or maybe you want to borrow a detail to dig his grave.
“Very funny! Very funny! That's one of the best horses in the regiment."
The orderly puts in gravely:
"It's a real hardship to see him go, sir. He's just a little sick."
“My interpretation of the order," the objector says, "is that you can trade your best individual mount. If that's it, your battery will walk,"
The captain gestures.
“Orders are orders. You've got to trade."
A very superior officer intervenes.
“Gentlemen!—Or maybe I ought to say gyspsies—We can't do business this way. We'll get an interpretation
