SCENE.--_The_ GADSEYS' _bungalow in the Plains, on a January morning._ MRS. G. _arguing with bearer in back veranda._
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.
G. Don't shout. I'm going to send in my papers.
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?