The better bred the fatter is their standard, and
very nice too. Arab troops and Arab gendarmerie in their quaint
spiked head-gear; while hundreds of British staff officers (where
they come from, or what they do I don't know), with tabs of all
colours (and as one officer remarked to me only the other day,
'When the blue and green tabs appear it's time to capture another
town'!) And a sprinkling of combatant officers, English sisters,
French attaches, and American Red Cross workers, represent the
western world.
"THE RACING.
"Now we go and place our solitary 10 pt. on a promising pony ridden
by one of the two 'real' jockeys. It is all we can spare, as the
Field Cashier happens to be away (as usual). Suddenly a bugle
blows, and we hear the usual cry 'They're off!' But they aren't; at
least two are and there's no stopping those two. No, they mean to
carry on now; neck and neck they go, and soon they are round the
distant corner, and thundering past the four furlong point. On they
come shouting for Allah and Mohammed, and standing high in their
stirrups they wave their sticks madly in the air, yelling at each
other with all the frenzy of the faithful followers of El Islam! A
dead heat they reach the post and gallop wildly on, to end up
somewhere on the banks of the Kuwaik Su!
"Now, the bugle goes again, and the start has really begun this
time, the field getting away something like a compact lump.
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