The Story of the Gadsbys

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.

CAPT. M. (jealously.) Then don’t say it Leave him alone. It’s not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It’ll do you good. I can’t go.

JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Do him good! (Smiling.) Give me the chit and I’ll drive. Let him lie down. Your horse is blocking my cart – please!

CAPT. M. (Slowly without reining back.) I beg your pardon – I’ll apologize. 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.”

CAPT. M. (Solus.) It would have served me right if he’d 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 break fast table.) How big and strange the room looks, and 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?

CAPT. G. Iller than I liked. (Tenderly.) Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave me.

MRS. G. I’ll never do it again.

CAPT. G. You’d better not. And now get those poor pale cheeks pink again, or I shall be angry. Don’t try to lift the urn. You’ll upset it. Wait. (Comes round to head of table and lifts urn.)

MRS. G. (Quickly.) Khitmatgar, howarchikhana see kettly lao. Butler, get a kettle from the cook-house. (Drawing down G.‘s face to her own.) Pip dear, I remember.

CAPT. G. What?

MRS. G. That last terrible night.

CAPT’. G. Then just you forget all about it.

MRS. G. (Softly, her eyes filling.) Never. It has brought us very close together, my husband. There! (Interlude.) I’m going to give Junda a saree.

CAPT. G. I gave her fifty dibs.

MRS. G. So she told me. It was a ‘normous reward. Was I worth it? (Several interludes.) Don’t! Here’s the khitmatgar. – Two lumps or one Sir?

THE SWELLING OF JORDAN

If thou hast run with the footmen and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? And if in the land of peace wherein thou trustedst they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan?

SCENE. – The GADSBYS’ bungalow in the Plains, on a January morning. MRS. G. arguing with bearer in back veranda.

CAPT. M. rides up.

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 comm’ 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?

CAPT. 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?

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’t you 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 destroying 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!

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. – 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!