M.—When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can't you walk yet? Grip 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 verandah. 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.
M.—Hwhatt??
G.—Don't shout. I'm going to send in my papers.
M.—You! Are you mad?
G.—No—only married.
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?
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.
M.—Does she say that she doesn't like India?
Mrs. G.—That's the worst of it. She won't, for fear of leaving me.
M.—What are the Hills made for?
G.—Not for my wife, at any rate.
M.—You know too much, Gaddy, and—I don't like you any the better for it!
G.—Never mind that. She wants England, and The
