Soldiers Three

CAPT. G. (Dazed.) I don’t quite know. Stay a bit. Have a drink or something. Don’t run away. You’re just getting amusing. Ha! Ha!

CAPT. M. (Aside.) What am I let in for? Gaddy has aged ten years in the night.

CAPT. G. (Slowly, fingering charger’s headstall.) Your curb’s too loose.

CAPT. M. So it is. Put it straight, will you? (Aside.) I shall be late for parade. Poor Gaddy.

CAPT. G.

links and unlinks curb-chain aimlessly, and finally stands staring towards the veranda.

The day brightens.

DOCTOR. (Knocked out of professional gravity, tramping across flower-beds and shaking G.‘s hands.) It’s – it’s – it’s! – Gadsby, there’s a fair chance – a dashed fair chance! The flicker, y’know. The sweat, y’know! I saw how it would be. The punkah, y’know. Deuced clever woman that Ayah of yours. Stopped the punkah just at the right time. A dashed good chance! No – you don’t go in. We’ll pull her through yet I promise on my reputation – under Providence. Send a man with this note to Bingle. Two heads better than one. ‘Specially the Ayah! We’ll pull her round. (Retreats hastily to house.)

CAPT. G. (His head on neck of M.‘s charger.) Jack! I bub – bub – believe, I’m going to make a bub – bub – bloody exhibitiod of byself.

CAPT. M. (Sniffing openly and feeling in his left cuff.) I b-b – believe, I’b doing it already. Old bad, what cad I say? I’b as pleased as – Cod dab you, Gaddy! You’re one big idiot and I’b adother. (Pulling himself together.) Sit tight! Here comes the Devil-dodger.

JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Who is not in the Doctor’s confidence.) We – we are only men in these things, Gadsby. I know that I can say nothing now to help —

CAPT. M. (Jealously.) Then don’t say it! Leave him alone. It’s not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It’ll do you good. I can’t go.

JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Do him good! (Smiling.) Give me the chit and I’ll drive. Let him lie down. Your horse is blocking my cart —please!

CAPT. M. (Slowly without reining back.) I beg your pardon – I’ll apologise. On paper if you like.

JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Flicking M.‘s charger.) That’ll do, thanks. Turn in, Gadsby, and I’ll bring Bingle back – ahem – ‘hell-for-leather.’

CAPT. M. (Solus.) It would have served me right if he’d cut me across the face. He can drive too. I shouldn’t care to go that pace in a bamboo cart. What a faith he must have in his Maker – of harness! Come hup, you brute! (Gallops off to parade, blowing his nose, as the sun rises.)

(INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.)

MRS. G. (Very white and pinched, in morning wrapper at breakfast table.) How big and strange the room looks, and oh how glad I am to see it again! What dust, though! I must talk to the servants. Sugar, Pip? I’ve almost forgotten. (Seriously.) Wasn’t I very ill?

CAPT. G. Iller than I liked. (Tenderly.) Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave me!

MRS. G. I’ll never do it again.

CAPT. G. You’d better not. And now get those poor pale cheeks pink again, or I shall be angry. Don’t try to lift the urn. You’ll upset it. Wait. (Comes round to head of table and lifts urn.)

MRS. G. (Quickly.) Khitmatgar, bowarchi-khana see kettly lao. Butler, get a kettle from the cook-house. (Drawing down G.‘s face to her own.) Pip dear, I remember.

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?

THE SWELLING OF JORDAN

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.

M. You look awf’ly serious. Anything wrong?

G. ‘Depends on your view entirely. I say, Jack, you won’t think more hardly of me than you can help, will you? Come further this way. – The fact of the matter is, that I’ve made up my mind – at least I’m thinking seriously of – cutting the Service.