bub—bub—believe I'm going to make a bub—bub—blasted exhibitiod of byself.
Captain 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
Captain M. (jealously). Then don't say it! Leave him alone. It's not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the note to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It'll do you good. I can't go.
Junior Chaplain. Do him good! (Smiling.) Give it me and I'll drive. Let him lie down. Your horse is blocking my cart—sir!
Captain 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".
Captain M. (solus).—It would ha' served me right if he had 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?
Captain G.—Iller than I liked. (Tenderly.) Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave me!
