--The fact of
the matter is, that I've made up my mind--at least I'm thinking seriously of--
cutting the Service.
Capt. M. Hwhatt?
Capt. G. Don't shout. I'm going to send in my papers.
Capt. M. You! Are you mad?
Capt. G. No--only married.
Capt. M. Look here! What's the meaning of it all? You never intend to leave us.
You can't. Isn't the best squadron of the best regiment of the best cavalry in
all the world good enough for you?
Capt. G. (Jerking his head over his shoulder.) She doesn't seem to thrive in
this God-forsaken country, and there's The Butcha to be considered and all
that, you know.
Capt. M. Does she say that she doesn't like India?
Capt. G. That's the worst of it. She won't for fear of leaving me.
Capt. M. What are the Hills made for?
Capt. G. Not for my wife, at any rate.
Capt. M. You know too much, Gaddy, and--I don't like you any the better for it!
Capt. G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The Butcha would be all the
better for it. I'm going to chuck. You don't understand.
Capt. M. (Hotly.) I understand this!--One hundred and thirty-seven new horse to
be licked into shape somehow before Luck comes round again; a hairy-heeled
draft who'll give more trouble than the horses; a camp next cold weather for a
certainty; ourselves the first on the roster; the Russian shindy ready to come
to a head at five minutes' notice, and you, the best of us all, backing out of
it all! Think a little, Gaddy.
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