CAPT. G. What?
MRS. G. That last terrible night.
CAPT. G. Then just you forget all about it.
MRS. G. (Softly, her eyes filling.) Never.
It has brought us very close together, my husband.
There! (Interlude.) I’m going to give
Junda a saree.
CAPT. G. I gave her fifty dibs.
MRS. G. So she told me. It was a ’normous
reward. Was I worth it? (Several interludes.)
Don’t! Here’s the khitmatgar.—Two
lumps or one, Sir?
If thou hast run with the footmen and they have wearied
thee, then how canst thou contend with horses?
And if in the land of peace wherein thou trustedst
they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling
of Jordan?
SCENE.—The GADSEYS’ bungalow
in the Plains, on a January morning. MRS. G. arguing
with bearer in back veranda.
CAPT.
M. rides up.
CAPT. M. ‘Mornin’, Mrs. Gadsby.
How’s the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Proprietor?
MRS. G. You’ll find them in the front veranda;
go through the house. I’m Martha just now.
CAPT. M. ’Cumbered about with cares
of khitmatgars? I fly.
Passes
into front veranda, where GADSBY is watching
GADSBY JUNIOR,
aged ten months, crawling about the
matting.
CAPT. M. What’s the trouble, Gaddy—spoiling
an honest man’s Europe morning this way? (Seeing
G. JUNIOR.) By Jove, that yearling’s comin’
on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee
there.
CAPT. G. Yes, he’s a healthy little scoundrel.
Don’t you think his hair’s growing?
M. Let’s have a look. Hi! Hst!
Come here, General Luck, and we’ll report on
you.
MRS. G. (Within.) What absurd name will you
give him next? Why do you call him that?
M. Isn’t he our Inspector-General of Cavalry?
Doesn’t he come down in his seventy-two perambulator
every morning the Pink Hussars parade? Don’t
wriggle, Brigadier. Give us your private opinion
on the way the third squadron went past. ’Trifle
ragged, weren’t they?
G. A bigger set of tailors than the new draft I don’t
wish to see. They’ve given me more than
my fair share—knocking the squadron out
of shape. It’s sickening!
M. When you’re in command, you’ll do better,
young ’un. Can’t you walk yet?
Get my finger and try. (To G.) ’Twon’t
hurt his hocks, will it?
G. Oh, no. Don’t let him flop, though,
or he’ll lick all the blacking off your boots.
MRS. G. (Within.) Who’s destroying my
son’s character?
M. And my Godson’s. I’m ashamed of
you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye, Jack!
Don’t you stand it! Hit him again!
G. (Sotto voce.) Put The Butcha down
and come to the end of the veranda. I’d
rather the Wife didn’t hear—just now.
