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glasses swept the front. Then the horses were led away under cover and the range-takers began operations. The brigadier recognised the signs and gained fresh hope as he saw that his prayer was answered. At the far end of the line Private Morgan, busily engaged in excavating a hole for himself by means of an entrenching tool much resembling a short handled garden hoe, looked up quickly as he heard a well known voice say

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"All right, Biddie, I'll observe from here. Bring 'em in quick."

"Strewth!" muttered Snatty to himself, "it's the major. So the old troop's comin' into action 'ere."

For weeks he had scanned every battery that had been near him, hoping to meet his own. But Horse Artillery act with cavalry and work far ahead of the toiling infantry in rear, so that it was not till now, when a pitched battle was in progress, when the advanced cavalry had come in and every available gun was being utilised, that Fate permitted Snatty to see his old battery once more. Looking over his shoulder he said—

"It's all right now, sergeant. There's some guns coming."

"You shut yer mouth and get on with yer work," was the rejoinder, "Wot do you know about guns, I'd like to know?" "Oh, nothink! But you watch 'em, that's all," said Private Morgan with an illsuppressed gleam of pride, which made the sergeant won der.

The line of six guns, each with its wagon behind it, thundered up the rise. There was a shrill whistle, and a hand held up. Then the hoarse voices of the sergeants shouted "Action front," and the wheelers were thrown into the breeching, almost sitting on their haunches to stop the weight behind them: the gunners leapt from their horses and sprang to the gun: a second's pause, then "Drive on," and six limbers went rattling away to the rear as six trails were flung round half a circle and dropped with 8 thud. Hardly were they down before each gun had its wagon up beside it and the horses unhooked. They too galloped to the rear. In ten seconds there was not a sign of movement. The battery was there, and that was all.

Of the weary infantry who lay and watched there was one at least who could appreciate the merit of the performance.

"Couldn't ha' been better in the old days on Salisbury Plain,” was his comment. "But, Gawd! the 'orses 'ave fell away proper. Skeletons, that's wot they are now."

But Private Morgan's soliloquy was again cut short by the remorseless sergeant behind him.

A few ourt orders passed rapidly down the battery, then came two sharp reports, followed by the click of the reopened breech, as the ranging rounds went singing on their journey. A spurt of brown earth showed for a second in front of that thick black line a

mile or more away, another showed behind.

"Graze short-graze over," said the major, still staring through his glasses. "Eighteen hundred, one round gun fire."

The order was repeated by a man standing behind him with a megaphone, and followed almost instantaneously by a round from every gun. Some puffs of smoke above the target, the echo of the bursting shell borne back along the breeze, and then for perhaps a minute all Hell might have been let loose, such was the uproar as every gun was worked at lightning speed. A whistle-and in a moment all was still again.

"Target down-stop firing," was the laconic order. "But," added the major softly, "I think that sickened 'em a bit." The attacking infantry had dropped down under cover, but not for long. Nearer and nearer pressed the relentless lines, sometimes pausing a while, or even dropping back, but always, like the waves of the incoming tide, gaining fresh ground at every rush. The end was very near now, and the bitterness of defeat entered into the defenders' hearts. For they did not know that the struggle for this particular hill, though of vital importance to themselves, was merely serving the subsidiary purpose of diverting attention while greater issues matured elsewhere. They only knew that ammunition was scarce, that they wanted water, and that now at last the order to retire had come. They got away in driblets, slowly, very slowly, until at last nothing

was left upon the hillside but a handful of infantry, the battery, and the dead and wounded. The riflemen crawled closer to the guns, feeling somehow that there was solace in their steady booming. The major looked at his watch, and then at the attacking lines in front of him.

"In ten minutes we'll have to get out of this," he said, "bring the horses up close behind us under cover.' The minutes passed and the net around them drew closer.

"Prepare to retire — rear limber up."

The few remaining infantry emptied their magazines and crept off down the hill. The guns fired their last few rounds as the teams came jingling up. Their arrival was the signal for a fresh outburst of fire. The few moments required for limbering up seemed a lifetime as men fell fast and horses mad with terror broke loose and dashed away. But years of stern discipline and careful training stood the battery in good stead now. The principle of "Abandon be damned: we never abandon guns" was not forgotten. Through the shouting, the curses, and the dust, the work went on. Dead horses were cut free and pulled aside, gunners took the place of fallen drivers, and at last five guns were got away. The sixth was in great difficulties. The maddened horses backed in every direction but the right one, and the panting gunners strove in vain to drop the trail upon the limber-hook. Beside the team stood Bridd

lington, trying to soothe the horses and steadying the men in the calm, cool voice that he habitually used upon parade.

Then suddenly from behind a rock there crawled out a strange figure. Filthy beyond words, hatless, with an inch of scrubby beard, and one foot bound up in blood-stained rags, this apparition limped painfully towards the gun

"Naow then!" a husky voice exclaimed, "stand still will yer, Dawn.'

"By Jove! it's Snatty," cried Briddlington, and as he spoke the driver of Snatty's horses gave a little grunt and pitched off on to the ground. Without a word the erstwhile private of infantry stooped and took the whip from the dead man's hand. He patted each horse in turn, then climbed into the saddle.

"Steady now-get back will yer," he growled, and they obeyed him quietly enough. The men behind gave a heave at the gun and a click denoted that the trail was on its hook.

"Drive on," oried Snatty, flourishing his whip, and down the hill they went full gallop.

Safety lay not in the way that they had come, but further to their left, where the ground was bad. At the bottom of the hill there was a low bank with a ditch in front of it, and just before they reached it the centre driver received a bullet in the head and dropped down like a stone. There was no time to pull up. The lead driver took his horses hard by the head and put them at

the bank. They jumped all right, but the pair behind them, deprived of a guiding hand upon the reins, saw the ditch at the last moment and swerved.

"My Gawd!" said Snatty, sitting back for the crash he knew would follow. The traces and the pace had dragged the centre horses over in spite of their swerve, but one of them stumbled as he landed. He staggered forward, and before he could recover Snatty's horses and the gun were upon him in a whirling mass of legs and straps and wheels. Briddlington, who had been riding beside the team, leapt to the ground and ran to the fallen horses.

"Sit on their heads," he cried. "Undo the quick release your side. Now then, together-heave." There was a rattle of hoofs against the footboard as Daylight rolled over kicking wildly to get free. Briddlington, at the risk of his life, leant over and pulled frantically at a strap. The two ends flew apart and the snorting horses struggled to their feet, but Snatty lay very still and deathly white upon the ground.

"Don't stand gaping. Hook in again-quick. We're not clear away yet by a long chalk," said Briddlington. Then he bent down and putting his arms round Snatty's crumpled figure lifted him very tenderly aside. "Lie still now," he said with a catch in his voice as he saw that the case was hopeless, "and you'll be all right.” But those flash

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ing hoofs and steel-tyred wheels had done their work. Snatty's last drive was over.

"It warn't their fault. I should 'ave 'eld them up," was all he said before he died.

The gun rejoined the battery safely, and defeat was turned to victory ere nightfall, but Private Henry Morgan was returned as "missing" from his regiment.

To this day, on the anniversary of the battle, in the mess of K3 Battery, R.H.A., it is the custom, when the King's health has been drunk, for the President to say—

"Mr Vice, to the memory of the man who brought away the last gun." And the Vicepresident answers: "Gentle men, to Driver Snatt."

IV.

Then the curious visitor is shown a large oil painting of a pair of bright bay horses with a little wizened driver riding one of them.

"That's Snatty," they will say, "a drunken scoundrel if you like, but he loved those horses, and he used to drive like blazes."

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DEMOCRACY AND HONOUR-THE SCORN OF INTELLIGENCE-THE
GUFF
OF SENATOR SMITH-A SNUB TO THE BRITISHER-MR
LLOYD GEORGE, THE SENATOR'S RIVAL-TEN THOUSAND LITTLE
THE RESULT OF DISENDOWMENT THE CHURCHES OF
EDWARD MOUNTAGU, EARL OF SANDWICH A GREAT
PUBLIC SERVANT-THE PRIZE-GOODS-THE BATTLE OF SOLEBAY.

CZARS FRANCE

IT is the inevitable consequence of democracy to blunt the honour and to impair the intelligence of those who bow the knee before it. The representatives of the people are perfectly content if their transgressions escape the people's notice. They profess no other ambition than to secure the popular support; and as the people's collective sense of right and wrong is not acute, they easily sink to the lowest standard of morality. Their words and actions represent what they believe to be the easy virtue of their supporters, and as they dare not lead, fearing lest true leadership might lose a vote, they accommodate their own opinions of political rectitude to the opinions of the mob. Even if they make a statement which will not bear examination, they take comfort in the reflection that either the voter will not find it out, or, if he does, that he will not pass a harsh judgment upon a useful exaggeration. The preamble of the Parliament Bill has taught us how highly Mr Asquith values his honour. Mr M'Kenna refuses to be outdone. In searching for arguments to support

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his Disestablishment Bill, he declared that all "the slum work" in Cardiff was done by the Methodists. It has been pointed out that there are practically no Free Churches in the slum district of Cardiff, where the Church communicants greatly outnumber all the Nonconformists put together. Mr M'Kenna finds facts irrelevant, and doubtless estimates at their proper worth the scruples of his supporters. But, as the Bishop of St Asaph says, "the question at issue is the honour of His Majesty's Secretary of State, and that question is a matter of concern to every citizen of this country." It should be; and yet Mr M'Kenna, perhaps, knows better than the Bishop how far he may profitably travel on the road of " carelessness."

If democracy teaches its leaders to flout the dictates of a plain morality, it persuades them still more effectually to laugh intelligence to scorn. The contempt in which demagogues hold their dupes is evident in every one of their speeches. Even in moments of grave crisis they address vast audiences as though these audi

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