The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.
—Gypsy Song.
SCENE. Interior of Miss MINNIE THREEGAN'S Bedroom at Simla. Miss THREEGAN, in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of things. Miss EMMA DEERCOURT, bosom—friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting on the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ballroom frock, and a bunch of artificial lilies of the valley. Time, 5:30 P. M. on a hot May afternoon.
Miss DEERCOURT. And he said: “I shall never forget this dance,” and, of course, I said: “Oh, how can you be so silly!” Do you think he meant anything, dear?
Miss THREEGAN. (Extracting long lavender silk stocking from the rubbish.) You know him better than I do.
Miss D. Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan.
Miss T. I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one's heels first? Look at this—isn't it shameful? (Spreads stocking-heel on open hand for inspection.)
Miss D. Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice. I've run the string so, and I've run the string so, and I can't make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves lilies of the valley.)
Miss T. As high up on the shoulder as possible.
Miss D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Older look lopsided.
Miss T. Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle.
BEARER. (Rapping at door.) Captain Sahib aya.
Miss D. (Jumping up wildly, and hunting for bodice, which she has discarded owing to the heat of the day.) Captain Sahib! What Captain Sahib? Oh, good gracious, and I'm only half dressed! Well, I sha'n't bother.
Miss T. (Calmly.) You needn't. It isn't for us. That's Captain Gadsby. He is going for a ride with Mamma. He generally comes five days out of the seven.
AGONIZED VOICE. (Prom an inner apartment.) Minnie, run out and give Captain Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be ready in ten minutes; and, O Minnie, come to me an instant, there's a dear girl!
Miss T. Oh, bother! (Aloud.) Very well, Mamma.
Exit, and reappears, after five minutes, flushed, and rubbing her fingers.
Miss D. You look pink. What has happened?
Miss T. (In a stage whisper.) A twenty-four-inch waist, and she won't let it out. Where are my bangles? (Rummages on the toilet-table, and dabs at her hair with a brush in the interval.)
Miss D. Who is this Captain Gadsby? I don't think I've met him.
Miss T. You must have. He belongs to the Harrar set. I've danced with him, but I've never talked to him. He's a big yellow man, just like a newly-hatched chicken, with an enormous moustache. He walks like this (imitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes “Ha-Hmmm!” deep down in his throat when he can't think of anything to say. Mamma likes him. I don't.
Miss D. (Abstractedly.) Does he wax that moustache?
Miss T. (Busy with Powder-puff.) Yes, I think so. Why?
Miss D. (Bending over the bodice and sewing furiously.) Oh, nothing—only—
Miss T. (Sternly.) Only what? Out with it, Emma.
Miss D. Well, May Olger—she's engaged to Mr. Charteris, you know—said—Promise you won't repeat this?
Miss T. Yes, I promise. What did she say?
Miss D. That—that being kissed (with a rush) with a man who didn't wax his moustache was—like eating an egg without salt.
Miss T. (At her full height, with crushing scorn.) May Olger is a horrid, nasty Thing, and you can tell her I said so. I'm glad she doesn't belong to my set—I must go and feed this man! Do I look presentable?
Miss D. Yes, perfectly. Be quick and hand him over to your Mother, and then we can talk. I shall listen at the door to hear what you say to him.
Miss T. 'Sure I don't care. I'm not afraid of Captain Gadsby.
In proof of this swings into the drawing-room with a mannish stride followed by two short steps, which produces the effect of a restive horse entering. Misses CAPTAIN GADSBY, who is sitting in the shadow of the window-curtain, and gazes round helplessly.
CAPTAIN GADSBY. (Aside.) The filly, by Jove! 'Must ha' picked up that action from the sire. (Aloud, rising.) Good evening, Miss Threegan.
Miss T. (Conscious that she is flushing.) Good evening, Captain Gadsby. Mamma told me to say that she will be ready in a few minutes. Won't you have some tea? (Aside.) I hope Mamma will be quick. What am I to say to the creature? (Aloud and abruptly.) Milk and sugar?
Capt. G. No sugar, tha-anks, and very little milk. Ha-Hmmm.
Miss T. (Aside.) If he's going to do that, I'm lost. I shall laugh. I know I shall!
Capt. G. (Pulling at his moustache and watching it sideways down his nose.) Ha-Hmmm. (Aside.) 'Wonder what the little beast can talk about. 'Must make a shot at it.
Miss T. (Aside.) Oh, this is agonizing. I must say something.
Both Together. Have you Been—
Capt. G. I beg your pardon. You were going to say—
Miss T. (Who has been watching the moustache with awed fascination.) Won't you have some eggs?
Capt. G. (Looking bewilderedly at the tea-table.) Eggs! (Aside.) O Hades! She must have a nursery-tea at this hour. S'pose they've wiped her mouth and sent her to me while the Mother is getting on her duds. (Aloud.) No, thanks.
Miss T. (Crimson with confusion.) Oh! I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking of mou—eggs for an instant. I mean salt. Won't you have some sa—sweets? (Aside.) He'll think me a raving lunatic. I wish Mamma would come.
Capt. G. (Aside.) It was a nursery-tea and she's ashamed of it. By Jove! She doesn't look half bad when she colors up like that. (Aloud, helping himself from the dish.) Have you seen those new chocolates at Peliti's?
Miss T. No, I made these myself. What are they like?
Capt. G. These! De-licious. (Aside.) And that's a fact.
Miss T. (Aside.) Oh, bother! he'll think I'm fishing for compliments. (Aloud.) No, Peliti's of course.
Capt. G. (Enthusiastically.) Not to compare with these. How d'you make them? I can't get my khansamah to understand the simplest thing beyond mutton and fowl.
Miss T. Yes? I'm not a khansamah, you know. Perhaps you frighten him. You should never frighten a servant. He loses his head. It's very bad policy.
Capt. G. He's so awf'ly stupid.
Miss T. (Folding her hands in her lap.) You should call him quietly and say: 'O khansamah jee!'
Capt. G. (Getting interested.) Yes? (Aside.) Fancy that little featherweight saying, 'O khansamah jee' to my bloodthirsty Mir Khan!
Miss T Then you should explain the dinner, dish by dish.
Capt. G. But I can't speak the vernacular.
Miss T. (Patronizingly.) You should pass the Higher Standard and try.
Capt. G. I have, but I don't seem to be any the wiser. Are you?
Miss T. I never passed the Higher Standard. But the khansamah is very patient with me. He doesn't get angry when I talk about sheep's topees, or order maunds of grain when I mean seers.
Capt. G. (Aside with intense indignation.) I'd like to see Mir Khan being rude to that girl! Hullo! Steady the Buffs! (Aloud.) And do you understand about horses, too?
Miss T. A little—not very much. I can't doctor them, but I know what they ought to eat, and I am in charge of our stable.
Capt. G. Indeed! You might help me then. What ought a man to give his sais in the Hills? My ruffian says eight rupees, because everything is so dear.
Miss T. Six rupees a month, and one rupee Simla allowance—neither more nor less. And a grass-cut gets six rupees. That's better than buying grass in the bazar.
Capt. G. (Admiringly.) How do you know?
Miss T. I have tried both ways.
Capt. G. Do you ride much, then? I've never seen you on the Mall.
Miss T. (Aside.) I haven't passed him more than fifty times. (Aloud.) Nearly every day.
Capt. G. By Jove! I didn't know that. Ha-Hmmm (Pulls at his moustache and is silent for forty seconds.)
Miss T. (Desperately, and wondering what will happen next.) It looks beautiful. I shouldn't touch it if I were you. (Aside.) It's all Mamma's fault for not coming before. I will be rude!
Capt. G. (Bronzing under the tan and bringing down his hand very quickly.) Eh! Wha-at! Oh, yes! Ha! Ha! (Laughs uneasily.) (Aside.) Well, of all the dashed cheek! I never had a woman say that to me yet. She must be a cool hand or else—Ah! that nursery-tea!
VOICE PROM THE UNKNOWN. Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!
Capt. G. Good gracious! What's that?
Miss T. The dog, I think. (Aside.) Emma has been listening, and I'll never forgive her!
Capt. G. (Aside.) They don't keep dogs here. (Aloud.) Didn't sound like a dog, did it?
Miss T. Then it must have been the cat. Let's go into the veranda. What a lovely evening it is!
Steps into veranda and looks out across the hills into sunset. The CAPTAIN follows.
Capt. G. (Aside.) Superb eyes! I wonder that I never noticed them before! (Aloud.) There's going to be a dance at Viceregal Lodge on Wednesday. Can you spare me one?
Miss T. (Shortly.) No! I don't want any of your charity-dances. You only ask me because Mamma told you to. I hop and I bump. You know I do!
Capt. G. (Aside.) That's true, but little girls shouldn't understand these things. (Aloud.) No, on my word, I don't. You dance beautifully.
Miss T. Then why do you always stand out after half a dozen turns? I thought officers in the Army didn't tell fibs.
Capt. G. It wasn't a fib, believe me. I really do want the pleasure of a dance with you.
Miss T. (Wickedly.) Why? Won't Mamma dance with you any more?
Capt. G. (More earnestly than the necessity demands.) I wasn't thinking of your Mother. (Aside.) You little vixen!
Miss T. (Still looking out of the window.) Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else.
Capt. G. (Aside.) Well! I wonder what she'll say next. I've never known a woman treat me like this before. I might b—Dash it, I might be an Infantry subaltern! (Aloud.) Oh, please don't trouble. I'm not worth thinking about. Isn't your Mother ready yet?
Miss T. I should think so; but promise me, Captain Gamsby, you won't take poor dear Mamma twice round Jakko any more. It tires her so.
Capt. G. She says that no exercise tires her.
Miss T. Yes, but she suffers afterward. You don't know what rheumatism is, and you oughtn't to keep her out so late, when it gets chill in the evenings.
Capt. G. (Aside.) Rheumatism. I thought she came off her horse rather in a bunch. Whew! One lives and learns. (Aloud.) I'm sorry to hear that. She hasn't mentioned it to me.
Miss T. (Flurried.) Of course not! Poor dear Mamma never would. And you mustn't say that I told you either. Promise me that you won't. Oh, Captain Gamsby, promise me you won't!
Capt. G. I am dumb, or—I shall be as soon as you've given me that dance, and another—if you can trouble yourself to think about me for a minute.
Miss T. But you won't like it one little bit. You'll be awfully sorry afterward.
Capt. G. I shall like it above all things, and I shall only be sorry that I didn't get more. (Aside.) Now what in the world am I saying?
Miss T. Very well. You will have only yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on. Shall we say Seven?
Capt. G. And Eleven. (Aside.) She can't be more than eight stone, but, even then, it's an absurdly small foot. (Looks at his own riding boots.)
Miss T. They're beautifully shiny. I can almost see my face in them.
Capt. G. I was thinking whether I should have to go on crutches for the rest of my life if you trod on my toes.
Miss T. Very likely. Why not change Eleven for a square?
Capt. G. No, please! I want them both waltzes. Won't you write them down?
Miss T. I don't get so many dances that I shall confuse them. You will be the offender.
Capt. G. Wait and see! (Aside.) She doesn't dance perfectly, perhaps, but—
Miss T. Your tea must have got cold by this time. Won't you have another cup?
Capt. G. No, thanks. Don't you think it's pleasanter out in the veranda? (Aside.) I never saw hair take that color in the sunshine before. (Aloud.) It's like one of Dicksee's pictures.
Miss T. Yes I It's a wonderful sunset, isn't it? (Bluntly.) But what do you know about Dicksee's pictures?
Capt. G. I go Home occasionally. And I used to know the Galleries. (Nervously.) You mustn't think me only a Philistine with a moustache.
Miss T. Don't! Please don't. I'm so sorry for what I said then. I was horribly rude. It slipped out before j thought. Don't you know the temptation to say frightful and shocking things just for the mere sake of saying them? I'm afraid I gave way to it.
Capt. G. (Watching the girl as she flushes.) I think I know the feeling. It would be terrible if we all yielded to it, wouldn't it? For instance, I might say—
POOR DEAR MAMMA. (Entering, habited, hatted, and booted.) Ah, Captain Gamsby? 'Sorry to keep you waiting. 'Hope you haven't been bored. 'My little girl been talking to you?
Miss T. (Aside.) I'm not sorry I spoke about the rheumatism. I'm not! I'm NOT! I only wished I'd mentioned the corns too.
Capt. G. (Aside.) What a shame! I wonder how old she is. It never occurred to me before. (Aloud.) We've been discussing 'Shakespeare and the musical glasses' in the veranda.
Miss T. (Aside.) Nice man! He knows that quotation. He isn't a Philistine with a moustache. (Aloud.) Goodbye, Captain Gadsby. (Aside.) What a huge hand and what a squeeze! I don't suppose he meant it, but he has driven the rings into my fingers.
Poor Dear Mamma. Has Vermillion come round yet? Oh, yes! Captain Gadsby, don't you think that the saddle is too far forward? (They pass into the front veranda.)
Capt. G. (Aside.) How the dickens should I know what she prefers? She told me that she doted on horses. (Aloud.) I think it is.
Miss T. (Coming out into front veranda.) Oh! Bad Buldoo! I must speak to him for this. He has taken up the curb two links, and Vermillion bates that. (Passes out and to horse's head.)
Capt. G. Let me do it!
Miss. T. No, Vermillion understands me. Don't you, old man? (Loosens curb-chain skilfully, and pats horse on nose and throttle.) Poor Vermillion! Did they want to cut his chin off? There!
Captain Gadsby watches the interlude with undisguised admiration.
Poor Dear Mamma. (Tartly to Miss T.) You've forgotten your guest, I think, dear.
Miss T. Good gracious! So I have! Goodbye. (Retreats indoors hastily.)
Poor Dear Mamma. (Bunching reins in fingers hampered by too tight gauntlets.) CAPTAIN Gadsby!
CAPTAIN GADSBY stoops and makes the foot-rest. Poor Dear Mamma blunders, halts too long, and breaks through it.
Capt. G. (Aside.) Can't hold up seven stone forever. It's all your rheumatism. (Aloud.) Can't imagine why I was so clumsy. (Aside.) Now Little Featherweight would have gone up like a bird.
They ride out of the garden. The Captain falls back.
Capt. G. (Aside.) How that habit catches her under the arms! Ugh!
Poor Dear Mamma. (With the worn smile of sixteen seasons, the worse for exchange.) You're dull this afternoon, Captain Gadsby.
Capt. G. (Spurring up wearily.) Why did you keep me waiting so long?
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
GILDED YOUTH. (Sitting on railings opposite Town Hall.) Hullo, Gadsby! 'Been trotting out the Gorgonzola! We all thought it was the Gorgon you're mashing.
Capt. G. (With withering emphasis.) You young cub! What the—does it matter to you?
Proceeds to read GILDED YOUTH a lecture on discretion and deportment, which crumbles latter like a Chinese Lantern. Departs fuming.
(FURTHER INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.) SCENE. Exterior of New Simla Library on a foggy evening. Miss THREEGAN and Miss DEERCOURT meet among the 'rickshaws. Miss T. is carrying a bundle of books under her left arm.
Miss D. (Level intonation.) Well?
Miss T. (Ascending intonation.) Well?
Miss D. (Capturing her friend's left arm, taking away all the books, placing books in 'rickshaw, returning to arm, securing hand by third finger and investigating.) Well! You bad girl! And you never told me.
Miss T. (Demurely.) He—he—he only spoke yesterday afternoon.
Miss D. Bless you, dear! And I'm to be bridesmaid, aren't I? You know you promised ever so long ago.
Miss T. Of course. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. (Gets into 'rickshaw.) O Emma!
Miss D. (With intense interest.) Yes, dear?
Miss T. (Piano.) It's quite true—about-the-egg.
Miss D. What egg?
Miss T. (Pianissimo prestissimo.) The egg without the salt. (Forte.) Chalo ghar ko jaldi, jhampani! (Go home, jhampani.)
Certain people of importance.
SCENE. Smoking-room of the Degchi Club. Time, 10.30 P. M. of a stuffy night in the Rains. Four men dispersed in picturesque attitudes and easy-chairs. To these enter BLAYNE of the Irregular Moguls, in evening dress.
BLAYNE. Phew! The Judge ought to be hanged in his own store-godown. Hi, khitmatgar! Pour a whiskey-peg, to take the taste out of my mouth.
CURTISS. (Royal Artillery.) That's it, is it? What the deuce made you dine at the Judge's? You know his bandobust.
Blayne. 'Thought it couldn't be worse than the Club, but I'll swear he buys ullaged liquor and doctors it with gin and ink (looking round the room.) Is this all of you tonight?
DOONE. (P.W.D.) Anthony was called out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in his tummy.
Curtiss. Miggy dies of cholera once a week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chlorodyne in between. Good little chap, though. Any one at the Judge's, Blayne?
Blayne. Cockley and his memsahib looking awfully white and fagged. Female girl—couldn'tcatch the name—on her way to the Hills, under the Cockleys' charge—the Judge, and Markyn fresh from Simla—disgustingly fit.
Curtiss. Good Lord, how truly magnificent! Was there enough ice? When I mangled garbage there I got one whole lump—nearly as big as a walnut. What had Markyn to say for himself?
Blayne. Seems that every one is having a fairly good time up there in spite of the rain. By Jove, that reminds me! I know I hadn'tcome across just for the pleasure of your society. News! Great news! Markyn told me.
DOONE. Who's dead now?
Blayne. No one that I know of; but Gadsby's hooked at last!
DROPPING CHORUS. How much? The Devil! Markyn was pulling your leg. Not GADSBY!
Blayne. (Humming.) “Yea, verily, verily, verily! Verily, verily, I say unto thee.” Theodore, the gift 'o God! Our Phillup! It's been given out up above.
MACKESY. (Barrister-at-Law.) Huh! Women will give out anything. What does accused say?
Blayne. Markyn told me that he congratulated him warily—one hand held out, t'other ready to guard. Gadsby turned pink and said it was so.
Curtiss. Poor old Caddy! They all do it. Who's she? Let's hear the details.
Blayne. She's a girl—daughter of a Colonel Somebody.
Doone. Simla's stiff with Colonels' daughters. Be more explicit.
Blayne. Wait a shake. What was her name? Thresomething. Three—
Curtiss. Stars, perhaps. Caddy knows that brand.
Blayne. Threegan—Minnie Threegan.
Mackesy. Threegan Isn't she a little bit of a girl with red hair?
Blayne. 'Bout that—from what from what Markyn said.
Mackesy. Then I've met her. She was at Lucknow last season. 'Owned a permanently juvenile Mamma, and danced damnably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn't you?
JERVOISE. (Civilian of twenty-five years' service, waking up from his doze.) Eh? What's that? Knew who? How? I thought I was at Home, confound you!
Mackesy. The Threegan girl's engaged, so Blayne says.
Jervoise. (Slowly.) Engaged—en-gaged! Bless my soul! I'm getting an old man! Little Minnie Threegan engaged. It was only the other day I went home with them in the Surat—no, the Massilia—and she was crawling about on her hands and knees among the ayahs. 'Used to call me the “Tick Tack Sahib” because I showed her my watch. And that was in Sixty-Seven—no, Seventy. Good God, how time flies! I'm an old man. I remember when Threegan married Miss Derwent—daughter of old Hooky Derwent—but that was before your time. And so the little baby's engaged to have a little baby of her own! Who's the other fool?
Mackesy. Gadsby of the Pink Hussars.
Jervoise. 'Never met him. Threegan lived in debt, married in debt, and'll die in debt. 'Must be glad to get the girl off his hands.
Blayne. Caddy has money—lucky devil. Place at Home, too.
Doone. He comes of first-class stock. 'Can't quite understand his being caught by a Colonel's daughter, and (looking cautiously round room.) Black Infantry at that! No offence to you, Blayne.
Blayne. (Stiffly.) Not much, thaanks.
Curtiss. (Quoting motto of Irregular Moguls.) “We are what we are,” eh, old man? But Gadsby was such a superior animal as a rule. Why didn't he go Home and pick his wife there?
Mackesy. They are all alike when they come to the turn into the straight. About thirty a man begins to get sick of living alone.
Curtiss. And of the eternal mutton—chop in the morning.
Doone. It's a dead goat as a rule, but go on, Mackesy.
Mackesy. If a man's once taken that way nothing will hold him, Do you remember Benoit of your service, Doone? They transferred him to Tharanda when his time came, and he married a platelayer's daughter, or something of that kind. She was the only female about the place.
Doone. Yes, poor brute. That smashed Benoit's chances of promotion altogether. Mrs. Benoit used to ask “Was you goin' to the dance this evenin'?”
Curtiss. Hang it all! Gadsby hasn't married beneath him. There's no tar-brush in the family, I suppose.
Jervoise. Tar-brush! Not an anna. You young fellows talk as though the man was doing the girl an honor in marrying her. You're all too conceited—nothing's good enough for you.
Blayne. Not even an empty Club, a dam' bad dinner at the Judge's, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You're quite right. We're a set of Sybarites.
Doone. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in—
Curtiss. Prickly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler.
Blayne. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean sheet.
Curtiss. No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday—one died—and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone?
Doone. The country's under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a bund, and came across four poor devils in their last stage. It's rather bad from here to Kuchara.
Curtiss. Then we're pretty certain to have a heavy go of it. Heigho! I shouldn't mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 'Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn't somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera-camp?
Mackesy. Ask the Committee.
Curtiss. You ruffian! You'll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fine on moral grounds. Done, have you any preference?
Doone. Small glass Kummel, please. Excellent carminative, these days. Anthony told me so.
Mackesy. (Signing voucher for four drinks.) Most unfair punishment. I only thought of Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana.
Blayne. Curtiss would have to import his nymphs by train. Mrs. Cockley's the only woman in the Station. She won't leave Cockley, and he's doing his best to get her to go.
Curtiss. Good, indeed! Here's Mrs. Cockley's health. To the only wife in the Station and a damned brave woman!
OMNES. (Drinking.) A damned brave woman
Blayne. I suppose Gadsby will bring his wife here at the end of the cold weather. They are going to be married almost immediately, I believe.
Curtiss. Gadsby may thank his luck that the Pink Hussars are all detachment and no headquarters this hot weather, or he'd be torn from the arms of his love as sure as death. Have you ever noticed the thorough-minded way British Cavalry take to cholera? It's because they are so expensive. If the Pinks had stood fast here, they would have been out in camp a month ago. Yes, I should decidedly like to be Gadsby.
Mackesy. He'll go Home after he's married, and send in his papers—see if he doesn't.
Blayne. Why shouldn't he? Hasn't he money? Would any one of us be here if we weren't paupers?
Doone. Poor old pauper! What has become of the six hundred you rooked from our table last month?
Blayne. It took unto itself wings. I think an enterprising tradesman got some of it, and a shroff gobbled the rest—or else I spent it.
Curtiss. Gadsby never had dealings with a shroff in his life.
Doone. Virtuous Gadsby! If I had three thousand a month, paid from England, I don't think I'd deal with a shroff either.
Mackesy. (Yawning.) Oh, it's a sweet life! I wonder whether matrimony would make it sweeter.
Curtiss. Ask Cockley—with his wife dying by inches!
Blayne. Go home and get a fool of a girl to come out to—what is it Thackeray says?—“the splendid palace of an Indian pro-consul.”
Doone. Which reminds me. My quarters leak like a sieve. I had fever last night from sleeping in a swamp. And the worst of it is, one can't do anything to a roof till the Rains are over.
Curtiss. What's wrong with you? You haven't eighty rotting Tommies to take into a running stream.
Doone. No: but I'm mixed boils and bad language. I'm a regular Job all over my body. It's sheer poverty of blood, and I don't see any chance of getting richer—either way.
Blayne. Can't you take leave?
Doone. That's the pull you Army men have over us. Ten days are nothing in your sight. I'm so important that Government can't find a substitute if I go away. Ye-es, I'd like to be Gadsby, whoever his wife may be.
Curtiss. You've passed the turn of life that Mackesy was speaking of.
Doone. Indeed I have, but I never yet had the brutality to ask a woman to share my life out here.
Blayne. On my soul I believe you're right. I'm thinking of Mrs. Cockley. The woman's an absolute wreck.
Doone. Exactly. Because she stays down here. The only way to keep her fit would be to send her to the Hills for eight months—and the same with any woman. I fancy I see myself taking a wife on those terms.
Mackesy. With the rupee at one and sixpence. The little Doones would be little Debra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie @chi-chi anent to bring home for the holidays.
Curtiss. And a pair of be-ewtiful sambhur—horns for Doone to wear, free of expense, presented by—Doone. Yes, it's an enchanting prospect. By the way, the rupee hasn't done falling yet. The time will come when we shall think ourselves lucky if we only lose half our pay.
Curtiss. Surely a third's loss enough. Who gains by the arrangement? That's what I want to know.
Blayne. The Silver Question! I'm going to bed if you begin squabbling Thank Goodness, here's Anthony—looking like a ghost.
Enter ANTHONY, Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired.
Anthony. 'Evening, Blayne. It's raining in sheets. Whiskey peg lao, khitmatgar. The roads are something ghastly.
Curtiss. How's Mingle?
Anthony. Very bad, and more frightened. I handed him over to Fewton. Mingle might just as well have called him in the first place, instead of bothering me.
Blayne. He's a nervous little chap. What has he got, this time?
Anthony. 'Can't quite say. A very bad tummy and a blue funk so far. He asked me at once if it was cholera, and I told him not to be a fool. That soothed him.
Curtiss. Poor devil! The funk does half the business in a man of that build.
Anthony. (Lighting a cheroot.) I firmly believe the funk will kill him if he stays down. You know the amount of trouble he's been giving Fewton for the last three weeks. He's doing his very best to frighten himself into the grave.
GENERAL CHORUS. Poor little devil! Why doesn't he get away?
Anthony. 'Can't. He has his leave all right, but he's so dipped he can't take it, and I don't think his name on paper would raise four annas. That's in confidence, though.
Mackesy. All the Station knows it.
Anthony. “I suppose I shall have to die here,” he said, squirming all across the bed. He's quite made up his mind to Kingdom Come. And I know he has nothing more than a wet-weather tummy if he could only keep a hand on himself.
Blayne. That's bad. That's very bad. Poor little Miggy. Good little chap, too. I say—
Anthony. What do you say?
Blayne. Well, look here—anyhow. If it's like that—as you say—I say fifty.
Curtiss. I say fifty.
Mackesy. I go twenty better.
Doone. Bloated Croesus of the Bar! I say fifty. Jervoise, what do you say? Hi! Wake up!
Jervoise. Eh? What's that? What's that?
Curtiss. We want a hundred rupees from you. You're a bachelor drawing a gigantic income, and there's a man in a hole.
Jervoise. What man? Any one dead?
Blayne. No, but he'll die if you don't—give the hundred. Here! Here's a peg-voucher. You can see what we've signed for, and Anthony's man will come round tomorrow to collect it. So there will be no trouble.
Jervoise. (Signing.) One hundred, E. M. J. There you are (feebly). It isn't one of your jokes, is it?
Blayne. No, it really is wanted. Anthony, you were the biggest poker-winner last week, and you've defrauded the tax-collector too long. Sign!
Anthony. Let's see. Three fifties and a seventy-two twenty-three twenty—say four hundred and twenty. That'll give him a month clear at the Hills. Many thanks, you men. I'll send round the chaprassi tomorrow.
Curtiss. You must engineer his taking the stuff, and of course you mustn't—
Anthony. Of course. It would never do. He'd weep with gratitude over his evening drink.
Blayne. That's just what he would do, damn him. Oh! I say, Anthony, you pretend to know everything. Have you heard about Gadsby?
Anthony. No. Divorce Court at last?
Blayne. Worse. He's engaged!
Anthony. How much? He can't be!
Blayne. He is. He's going to be married in a few weeks. Markyn told me at the Judge's this evening. It's pukka.
Anthony. You don't say so? Holy Moses! There'll be a shine in the tents of Kedar.
Curtiss. 'Regiment cut up rough, think you?
Anthony. 'Don't know anything about the Regiment.
Mackesy. It is bigamy, then?
Anthony. Maybe. Do you mean to say that you men have forgotten, or is there more charity in the world than I thought?
Doone. You don't look pretty when you are trying to keep a secret. You bloat. Explain.
Anthony. Mrs. Herriott!
Blayne. (After a long pause, to the room generally.) It's my notion that we are a set of fools.
Mackesy. Nonsense. That business was knocked on the head last season. Why, young Mallard—
Anthony. Mallard was a candlestick, paraded as such. Think awhile. Recollect last season and the talk then. Mallard or no Mallard, did Gadsby ever talk to any other woman?
Curtiss. There's something in that. It was slightly noticeable now you come to mention it. But she's at Naini Tal and he's at Simla.
Anthony. He had to go to Simla to look after a globe-trotter relative of his—a person with a title. Uncle or aunt.
Blayne And there he got engaged. No law prevents a man growing tired of a woman.
Anthony. Except that he mustn't do it till the woman is tired of him. And the Herriott woman was not that.
Curtiss. She may be now. Two months of Naini Tal works wonders.
Doone. Curious thing how some women carry a Fate with them. There was a Mrs. Deegie in the Central Provinces whose men invariably fell away and got married. It became a regular proverb with us when I was down there. I remember three men desperately devoted to her, and they all, one after another, took wives.
Curtiss. That's odd. Now I should have thought that Mrs. Deegie's influence would have led them to take other men's wives. It ought to have made them afraid of the judgment of Providence.
Anthony. Mrs. Herriott will make Gadsby afraid of something more than the judgment of Providence, I fancy.
Blayne. Supposing things are as you say, he'll be a fool to face her. He'll sit tight at Simla.
Anthony. Shouldn't be a bit surprised if he went off to Naini to explain. He's an unaccountable sort of man, and she's likely to be a more than unaccountable woman.
Doone. What makes you take her character away so confidently?
Anthony. Primum tempus. Caddy was her first and a woman doesn't allow her first man to drop away without expostulation. She justifies the first transfer of affection to herself by swearing that it is forever and ever. Consequently—
Blayne. Consequently, we are sitting here till past one o'clock, talking scandal like a set of Station cats. Anthony, it's all your fault. We were perfectly respectable till you came in. Go to bed. I'm off, Good night all.
Curtiss. Past one! It's past two by Jove, and here's the khit coming for the late charge. Just Heavens! One, two, three, four, five rupees to pay for the pleasure of saying that a poor little beast of a woman is no better than she should be. I'm ashamed of myself. Go to bed, you slanderous villains, and if I'm sent to Beora tomorrow, be prepared to hear I'm dead before paying my card account!
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