(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 of