CAPT. M. (_Brandishing scabbarded sword._) Woman, produce those shoes!
Some one lend me a bread-knife. We mustn't crack Gaddy's head more than
it is. (_Slices heel off white satin slipper and puts slipper up his
sleeve._) Where is the Bride? (_To the company at large._) Be tender
with that rice. It's a heathen custom. Give me the big bag.
_Bride slips out quietly into 'rickshaw and departs
towards the sunset._
CAPT. M. (_In the open._) Stole away, by Jove! So much, the worse for
Gaddy! Here he is. Now Gaddy, this'll be livelier than Amdheran! Where's
your horse?
CAPT. G. (_Furiously, seeing that the women are out of earshot._) Where
the ---- is my _Wife?_
CAPT. M. Half-way to Mahasu by this time. You'll have to ride like Young
Lochinvar.
_Horse comes round on his hind legs; refuses to let G. handle him._
CAPT. G. Oh you will, will you? Get round, you brute-you hog-you beast!
Get _round!_
_Wrenches horse's head over, nearly breaking lower jaw; swings himself
into saddle, and sends home both spurs in the midst of a spattering gale
of Best Patna._
CAPT. M. For your life and your love--ride, Gaddy!--And God bless you!
_Throws half a pound of rice at G., who disappears, bowed forward on the
saddle, in a cloud of sunlit dust._
CAPT. M. I've lost old Gaddy. (_Lights cigarette and strolls off,
singing absently_):--
'You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card,
That a young man married is a young man marred!'
MISS DEERCOURT. (_From her horse._) Really, Captain Mafflin! You are
more plain spoken than polite!
CAPT. M. (_Aside._) They say marriage is like cholera. 'Wonder who'll be
the next victim.
_White satin slipper slides from his sleeve and falls at his feet. Left
wondering._