LITMIR.BIZ

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Oh, a shell never falls twice in the same place. You've paid your toll to misfortune—why should your wife be picked out more than anybody else's?

      G. I can talk just as reasonably as you can, but you don't understand—you don't understand. And then there's The Butcha. Deuce knows where the Ayah takes him to sit in the evening! He has a bit of a cough. Haven't you noticed it?

      M. Bosh! The Brigadier's jumping out of his skin with pure condition. He's got a muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two-year-old. What's demoralised you?

      G. Funk. That's the long and the short of it. Funk!

      M. But what is there to funk?

      G. Everything. It's ghastly.

      M. Ah! I see.

      You don't want to fight,

       And by Jingo when we do,

       You've got the kid, you've got the Wife,

       You've got the money, too.

      That's about the case, eh?

      G. I suppose that's it. But it's not for myself. It's because of them. At least I think it is.

      M. Are you sure? Looking at the matter in a cold-blooded light, the Wife is provided for even if you were wiped out to-night. She has an ancestral home to go to, money, and the Brigadier to carry on the illustrious name.

      G. Then it is for myself or because they are part of me. You don't see it. My life's so good, so pleasant, as it is, that I want to make it quite safe. Can't you understand?

      M. Perfectly. 'Shelter-pit for the Orf'cer's charger,' as they say in the Line.

      G. And I have everything to my hand to make it so. I'm sick of the strain and the worry for their sakes out here; and there isn't a single real difficulty to prevent my dropping it altogether. It'll only cost me—Jack, I hope you'll never know the shame that I've been going through for the past six months.

      M. Hold on there! I don't wish to be told. Every man has his moods and tenses sometimes.

      G. (Laughing bitterly.) Has he? What do you call craning over to see where your near-fore lands?

      M. In my case it means that I have been on the Considerable Bend, and have come to parade with a Head and a Hand. It passes in three strides.

      G. (Lowering voice.) It never passes with me, Jack. I'm always thinking about it. Phil Gadsby funking a fall on parade! Sweet picture, isn't it! Draw it for me.

      M. (Gravely.) Heaven forbid! A man like you can't be as bad as that. A fall is no nice thing, but one never gives it a thought.

      G. Doesn't one? Wait till you've got a wife and a youngster of your own, and then you'll know how the roar of the squadron behind you turns you cold all up the back.

      M. (Aside.) And this man led at Amdheran after Bagal-Deasin went under, and we were all mixed up together, and he came out of the show dripping like a butcher. (Aloud.) Skittles! The men can always open out, and you can always pick your way more or less. We haven't the dust to bother us, as the men have, and whoever heard of a horse stepping on a man?

      G. Never—as long as he can see. But did they open out for poor Errington?

      M. Oh, this is childish!

      G. I know it is, worse than that. I don't care. You've ridden Van Loo. Is he the sort of brute to pick his way—'specially when we're coming up in column of troop with any pace on?

      M. Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in column of troop, and then only to save time. Aren't three lengths enough for you?

      G. Yes—quite enough. They just allow for the full development of the smash. I'm talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you that, for the past three months, I've felt every hoof of the squadron in the small of my back every time that I've led.

      M. But, Gaddy, this is awful!

      G. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it royal? A Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his charger before parade like the blasted boozing Colonel of a Black Regiment!

      M. You never did!

      G. Once only. He squelched like a mussuck, and the Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked his eye at me. You know old Haffy's eye. I was afraid to do it again.

      M. I should think so. That was the best way to rupture old Van Loo's tummy, and make him crumple you up. You knew that.

      G. I didn't care. It took the edge off him.

      M. 'Took the edge off him'? Gaddy, you—you—you mustn't, you know! Think of the men.

      G. That's another thing I am afraid of. D'you s'pose they know?

      M. Let's hope not; but they're deadly quick to spot skrim—little things of that kind. See here, old man, send the Wife Home for the hot weather and come to Kashmir with me. We'll start a boat on the Dal or cross the Rhotang—shoot ibex or loaf—which you please. Only come! You're a bit off your oats and you're talking nonsense. Look at the Colonel—swag-bellied rascal that he is. He has a wife and no end of a bow-window of his own. Can any one of us ride round him—chalk-stones and all? I can't, and I think I can shove a crock along a bit.

      G. Some men are different. I haven't the nerve. Lord help me, I haven't the nerve! I've taken up a hole and a half to get my knees well under the wallets. I can't help it. I'm so afraid of anything happening to me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front of the squadron, for cowardice.

      M. Ugly word, that. I should never have the courage to own up.

      G. I meant to lie about my reasons when I began, but—I've got out of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won't?—But I know you won't.

      M. Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for their Pride.

      G. Eh! Wha-at?

      M. Don't you know? The men have called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of the Pink Hussars ever since she came to us.

      G. 'Tisn't her fault. Don't think that. It's all mine.

      M. What does she say?

      G. I haven't exactly put it before her. She's the best little woman in the world, Jack, and all that—but she wouldn't counsel a man to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I think—

      M. Never mind. Don't tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and Landed-Gentry tack.

      G. She'd see through it. She's five times cleverer than I am.

      M. (Aside.) Then she'll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse of him for the rest of her days.

      G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?

      M. 'Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question? Think a minute. What answer used you to give?

      G. So bad as that? I'm not entitled to expect anything more, but it's a bit hard when one's best friend turns round and—

      M. So I have found. But you will have consolations—Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you're lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment—all uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you?

      G. Thirty-three. I know it's—

      M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J.P. landlord. At fifty you'll own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the dovecotes of—what's the particular dunghill you're going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.

      G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke.

      M. D'you think so? Isn't cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes a man fifty years to arrive at it. You're quite right, though. It is more than a joke. You've managed it in thirty-three.

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