But now--tell about it--please.
Capt. G. There's nothing to tell. I was awf'ly old then--nearly two and twenty-
-and she was quite that.
Mrs. G. That means she was older than you. I shouldn't like her to have been
younger. Well?
Capt. G. Well, I fancied myself in love and raved about a bit, and--oh, yes, by
Jove! I made up poetry. Ha! Ha!
Mrs. G. You never wrote any for me! What happened?
Capt. G. I came out here, and the whole thing went phut. She wrote to say that
there had been a mistake, and then she married.
Mrs. G. Did she care for you much?
Capt. G. No. At least she didn't show it as far as I remember.
Mrs. G. As far as you remember! Do you remember her name? (Hears it and bows
her head.) Thank you, my husband.
Capt. G. Who but you had the right? Now, Little Featherweight, have you ever
been mixed up in any dark and dismal tragedy?
Mrs. G. If you call me Mrs. Gadsby, p'raps I'll tell.
Capt. G. (Throwing Parade rasp into his voice.) Mrs. Gadsby, confess!
Mrs. G. Good Heavens, Phil! I never knew that you could speak in that terrible
voice.
Capt. G. You don't know half my accomplishments yet. Wait till we are settled
in the Plains, and I'll show you how I bark at my troop. You were going to say,
darling?
Mrs.
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