Mrs. G. (Within.) What absurd name will you give him next? Why do you call him
that?
Capt. M. Isn't he our Inspector-General of Cavalry? Doesn't he come down in his
seventeen-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?
Capt. 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!
Capt. M. When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can'tyou walk
yet? Grip my finger and try. (To G.) 'Twon't hurt his hocks, will it?
Capt. G. Oh, no. Don't let him flop, though, or he'll lick all the blacking off
your boots.
Mrs. G. (Within.) Who's destroy mg my son's character?
Capt. 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 I
Capt. 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.
Capt. M. You look awf'ly serious. Anything wrong?
Capt. 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.
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