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and when I put the farrier-sergeant's horse at a lush-
looking obstacle I failed to observe that there was a
strand of wire in it. He took it at the roots and
turned a somersault. My wide boots were firmly
wedged in the stirrups and the clumsy beast rolled all
over me. Two young men, acting as the "advance
guard" of the troop, were close behind me. One of
them dismounted and scrambled hurriedly through
the hedge, while the other shouted to him to "shoot
the horse", who was now recumbent with one of my
legs under him. My well-meaning rescuer actually
succeeded in extracting my rifle from its "bucket",
but before he had time to make my position more
perilous by loading it. Bob Jenner arrived, brought
him to his senses with some strong language, and
extricated me, half-stunned and very much crushed.
The same day I was taken to a doctor's house in
Canterbury. It would be hypocrisy to say that I was
fundamentally distressed about my badly broken arm.
I couldn't have got a respite from the Workhouse in
any other way. But if I had been able to look into
the future I should have learned one very sad fact.
I had seen the last of my faithful friend Cockbird.


STARING AT my face in a mirror two months
after the accident, I compared my pallid appear-
ance with the picture of health I used to see in a small
scrap of glass when I was shaving with cold water in
the Army. All my sunburnt health and hardihood
had vanished with my old pair of breeches (which the
nurse who looked after me had thrown away, saying
that they made the room smell like a stable), but I