This appeared to soothe the Colonel, for he wanted
the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt that he had made a mistake, and could not
of course acknowledge it. Meantime, the presence of the Drum-Horse was an
annoyance to him.
Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three cheroots, and his friend,
Martyn; and they all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn conferred for two
hours in Yale's quarters; but only the bull-terrier who keeps watch over Yale's
boot-trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded and sheeted to his ears, left
Yale's stables and was taken, very unwillingly, into the Civil Lines. Yale's
groom went with him. Two men broke into the Regimental Theatre and took several
paint-pots and some large scenery brushes. Then night fell over the
Cantonments, and there was a noise as of a horse kicking his loose-box to
pieces in Yale's stables. Yale had a big, old, white Waler trap-horse.
The next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Yale was going to shoot
the Drum-Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a regular
regimental funeral--a finer one than they would have given the Colonel had he
died just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sacking, and mounds and mounds
of roses, and the body, under sacking, was carried out to the place where the
anthrax cases were cremated; two-thirds of the Regiment followed.
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