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 comin'
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?
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?
M. Isn't he our Inspector-General of Cavalry? Doesn't he come down in
his seventy-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?
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!
M. When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can't you walk
yet? Get 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
veranda. I'd rather the Wife didn't hear--just now.