CAPT. G. I have got both scales somewhere in my head; but it’s hard to tell how light you can make a head-stall, for instance, until you’ve actually had a model made.
MRS. G. But if you read out the list, I could copy it down, and pin it up there just above your table. Wouldn’t that do?
CAPT. G. It would be awf’ly nice, dear, but it would be giving you trouble for nothing. I can’t work that way. I go by rule of thumb. I know the present scale of weights, and the other one – the one that I’m trying to work to – will shift and vary so much that I couldn’t be certain, even if I wrote it down.
MRS. G. I’m so sorry. I thought I might help. Is there anything else that I could be of use in?
CAPT. G. (Looking round the room.) I can’t think of anything. You’re always helping me you know.
MRS. G. Am I? How?
CAPT. G. You are of course, and as long as you’re near me – I can’t explain exactly, but it’s in the air.
MRS. G. And that’s why you wanted to send me away?
CAPT. G. That’s only when I’m trying to do work – grubby work like this.
MRS. G. Mafflin’s better, then, isn’t he?
CAPT. G. (Rashly.) Of course he is. Jack and I have been thinking along the same groove for two or three years about this equipment. It’s our hobby, and it may really be useful some day.
MRS. G. (After a pause.) And that’s all that you have away from me?
CAPT. G. It isn’t very far away from you now. Take care the oil on that bit doesn’t come off on your dress.
MRS. G. I wish – I wish so much that I could really help you. I believe I could – if I left the room. But that’s not what I mean.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) Give me patience! I wish she would go. (Aloud.) I as-sure you you can’t do anything for me, Minnie, and I must really settle down to this. Where’s my pouch?
MRS. G. (Crossing to writing-table.) Here you are, Bear. What a mess you keep your table in!
CAPT. G. Don’t touch it. There’s a method in my madness, though you mightn’t think of it.
MRS. G. (At table.) I want to look – Do you keep accounts, Pip?
CAPT. G. (Bending over saddlery.) Of a sort. Are you rummaging among the Troop papers? Be careful.
MRs. G. Why? I sha’n’t disturb anything. Good gracious! I had no idea that you had anything to do with so many sick horses.
CAPT. G. ‘Wish I hadn’t, but they insist on falling sick. Minnie, if I were you I really should not investigate those papers. You may come across something that you won’t like.
MRS. G. Why will you always treat me like a child? I know I’m not displacing the horrid things.
CAPT. G. (Resignedly.) Very well, then. Don’t blame me if anything happens. Play with the table and let me go on with the saddlery. (Slipping hand into trousers-pocket.) Oh, the deuce!
MRS. G. (Her back to G.) What’s that for?
CAPT. G. Nothing. (Aside.) There’s not much in it, but I wish I’d torn it up.
MRS. G. (Turning over contents of table.) I know you’ll hate me for this; but I do want to see what your work is like. (A pause.) Pip, what are “farcybuds”?
CAPT. G. Hab! Would you really like to know? They aren’t pretty things.
MRS. G. This Journal of Veterinary Science says they are of “absorbing interest.” Tell me.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) It may turn her attention.
Gives a long and designedly loathsome account of glanders and farcy.
MRS. G. Oh, that’s enough. Don’t go on!
CAPT. G. But you wanted to know – Then these things suppurate and matterate and spread —
MRS. G. Pin, you’re making me sick! You’re a horrid, disgusting schoolboy.
CAPT. G. (On his knees among the bridles.) You asked to be told. It’s not my fault if you worry me into talking about horrors.
MRS. G. Why didn’t you say – No?
CAPT. G. Good Heavens, child! Have you come in here simply to bully me?
MRS. G. I bully you? How could I! You’re so strong. (Hysterically.) Strong enough to pick me up and put me outside the door and leave me there to cry. Aren’t you?
CAPT. G. It seems to me that you’re an irrational little baby. Are you quite well?
MRS. G. Do I look ill? (Returning to table). Who is your lady friend with the big grey envelope and the fat monogram outside?
CAPT. G. (Aside.) Then it wasn’t locked up, confound it. (Aloud.) “God made her, therefore let her pass for a woman.” You remember what farcybuds are like?
MRS. G. (Showing envelope.) This has nothing to do with them. I’m going to open it. May I?
CAPT. G. Certainly, if you want to. I’d sooner you didn’t though. I don’t ask to look at your letters to the Deer-court girl.
MRS. G. You’d better not, Sir! (Takes letter from envelope.) Now, may I look? If you say no, I shall cry.
CAPT. G. You’ve never cried in my knowledge of you, and I don’t believe you could.
MRS. G. I feel very like it to-day, Pip. Don’t be hard on me. (Reads letter.) It begins in the middle, without any “Dear Captain Gadsby,” or anything. How funny!
CAPT. G. (Aside.) No, it’s not Dear Captain Gadsby, or anything, now. How funny!
MRS. G. What a strange letter! (Reads.) “And so the moth has come too near the candle at last, and has been singed into – shall I say Respectability? I congratulate him, and hope he will be as happy as he deserves to be.” What does that mean? Is she congratulating you about our marriage?
CAPT. G. Yes, I suppose so.
MRS. G. (Still reading letter.) She seems to be a particular friend of yours.
CAPT. G. Yes. She was an excellent matron of sorts – a Mrs. Herriott – wife of a Colonel Herriott. I used to know some of her people at Home long ago – before I came out.
MRS. G. Some Colonel’s wives are young – as young as me. I knew one who was younger.
CAPT. G. Then it couldn’t have been Mrs. Herriott. She was old enough to have been your mother, dear.
MRS. G. I remember now. Mrs. Scargill was talking about her at the Dutfins’ tennis, before you came for me, on Tuesday. Captain Mafflin said she was a “dear old woman.” Do you know, I think Mafilin is a very clumsy man with his feet.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) Good old Jack! (Aloud.) Why, dear?
MRS. G. He had put his cup down on the ground then, and he literally stepped into it. Some of the tea spirted over my dress – the grey one. I meant to tell you about it before.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) There are the makings of a strategist about Jack though his methods are coarse. (Aloud.) You’d better get a new dress, then. (Aside.) Let us pray that that will turn her.
MRS. G. Oh, it isn’t stained in the least. I only thought that I’d tell you. (Returning to letter.) What an extraordinary person! (Reads.) “But need I remind you that you have taken upon yourself a charge of wardship” – what in the world is a charge of wardship? – “which as you yourself know, may end in Consequences” —
CAPT. G. (Aside.) It’s safest to let em see everything as they come across it; but ‘seems to me that there are exceptions to the rule. (Aloud.) I told you that there was nothing to be gained from rearranging my table.
MRS. G. (Absently.) What does the woman mean? She goes on talking about Consequences – “almost inevitable Consequences” with a capital C – for half a page. (Flushing scarlet.) Oh, good gracious! How abominable!
CAPT. G. (Promptly.) Do you think so? Doesn’t it show a sort of motherly interest in us? (Aside.) Thank Heaven. Harry always wrapped her meaning up safely! (Aloud.) Is it absolutely necessary to go on with the letter, darling?
MRS. G. It’s impertinent – it’s simply horrid. What right has this woman to write in this way to you? She oughtn’t to.
CAPT. G. When you write to the Deercourt girl, I notice that you generally fill three or four sheets. Can’t you let an old woman babble on paper once in a way? She means well.
MRS. G. I don’t care. She shouldn’t write, and if she did, you ought to have shown me her letter.
CAPT. G. Can’t you understand why I kept it to myself, or must I explain at length – as I explained the farcybuds?
MRS. G. (Furiously.) Pip I hate you! This is as bad as those idiotic saddle-bags on the floor. Never mind whether it would please me or not, you ought to have given it to me to read.
CAPT. G. It comes to the same thing. You took it yourself.
MRS. G. Yes, but if I hadn’t taken it, you wouldn’t have said a word. I think this Harriet Herriott – it’s like a name in a book – is an interfering old Thing.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) So long as you thoroughly understand that she is old, I don’t much care what you think. (Aloud.) Very good, dear. Would you like to write and tell her so? She’s seven thousand miles away.
MRS. G. I don’t want to have anything to do with her, but you ought to have told me. (Turning to last page of letter.) And she patronizes me, too. I’ve never seen her! (Reads.) “I do not know how the world stands with you; in all human probability I shall never know; but whatever I may have said before, I pray for her sake more than for yours that all may be well. I have learned what misery means, and I dare not wish that any one dear to you should share my knowledge.”
CAPT. G. Good God! Can’t you leave that letter alone, or, at least, can’t you refrain from reading it aloud? I’ve been through it once. Put it back on ‘he desk. Do you hear me?
MRS. G. (Irresolutely.) I sh-sha’n’t! (Looks at G.‘s eyes.) Oh, Pip, please! I didn’t mean to make you angry – ‘Deed, I didn’t. Pip, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve wasted your time – CAPT. G. (Grimly.) You have. Now, will you be good enough to go – if there is nothing more in my room that you are anxious to pry into?
MRS. G. (Putting out her hands.) Oh, Pip, don’t look at me like that! I’ve never seen you look like that before and it hu-urts me! I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to have been here at all, and – and – and – (sobbing.) Oh, be good to me! Be good to me! There’s only you – anywhere! Breaks down in long chair, hiding face in cushions.
CAPT. G. (Aside.) She doesn’t know how she flicked me on the raw. (Aloud, bending over chair.) I didn’t mean to be harsh, dear – I didn’t really. You can stay here as long as you please, and do what you please. Don’t cry like that. You’ll make yourself sick. (Aside.) What on earth has come over her? (Aloud.) Darling, what’s the matter with you?
Mrs. G. (Her face still hidden.) Let me go – let me go to my own room. Only – only say you aren’t angry with me.
CAPT. G. Angry with you, love! Of course not. I was angry with myself. I’d lost my temper over the saddlery – Don’t hide your face, Pussy. I want to kiss it.
Bends lower, MRS. G. slides right arm round his neck. Several interludes and much sobbing.
MRS. G. (In a whisper.) I didn’t mean about the jam when I came in to tell you —
CAPT’. G. Bother the jam and the equipment! (Interlude.)
MRS. G. (Still more faintly.) My finger wasn’t scalded at all. I – wanted to speak to you about – about – something else, and – I didn’t know how.
CAPT. G. Speak away, then. (Looking into her eyes.) Eb! Wha-at? Minnie! Here, don’t go away! You don’t mean?
MRS. G. (Hysterically, backing to portiere and hiding her face in its fold’s.) The – the Almost Inevitable Consequences! (Flits through portiere as G. attempts to catch her, and bolts her self in her own room.)
CAPT. G. (His arms full of portiere.) Oh! (Sitting down heavily in chair.) I’m a brute – a pig – a bully, and a blackguard. My poor, poor little darling! “Made to be amused only?” —
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW – Knowing Good and Evil
SCENE. – The GADSBYS’ bungalow in the Plains, in June. Punkah – coolies asleep in veranda where Captain GADSBY is walking up and down. DOCTOR’S trap in porch. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN drifting generally and uneasily through the house. Time, 3:40 A. M. Heat 94 degrees in veranda.
DOCTOR. (Coming into veranda and touching G. on the shoulder.) You had better go in and see her now.
CAPT. G. (The color of good cigar-ash.) Eb, wha-at? Oh, yes, of course. What did you say?
DOCTOR. (Syllable by syllable.) Go – in – to – the – room – and – see – her. She wants to speak to you. (Aside, testily.) I shall have him on my hands next.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (In half-lighted dining room.) Isn’t there any? —
DOCTOR. (Savagely.) Hsh, you little fool!
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Let me do my work. Gadsby, stop a minute! (Edges after G.)
DOCTOR. Wait till she sends for you at least – at least. Man alive, he’ll kill you if you go in there! What are you bothering him for?
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Coming into veranda.) I’ve given him a stiff brandy-peg. He wants it. You’ve forgotten him for the last ten hours and – forgotten yourself too.
CAPT. G. enters bedroom, which is lit by one night-lamp. Ayak on the floor pretending to be asleep.
VOICE. (From the bed.) All down the street – such bonfires! Ayah, go and put them out! (Appealingly.) How can I sleep with an installation of the C.I.E. in my room? No – not C.I.E. Something else. What was it?
CAPT. G. (Trying to control his voice.) Minnie, I’m here. (Bending over bed.) Don’t you know me, Minnie? It’s me – it’s Phil – it’s your husband.
VOICE. (Mechanically.) It’s me – it’s Phil – it’s your husband.
CAPT. G. She doesn’t know mel – It’s your own husband, darling.
VOICE. Your own husband, darling. AYAH. (With an inspiration.) Memsahib understanding all I saying.
CAPT. G. Make her understand me then – quick!
AYAH. (Hand on MRS. G.‘s forehead.) Memsahib! Captain Sahib here.
VOICE. Salaem do. (Fretfully.) I know I’m not fit to be seen.
AYAH. (Aside to G.) Say “marneen” same as breakfash.
CAPT. G. Good-morning, little woman. How are we to-day?
VOICE. That’s Phil. Poor old Phil. (Viciously.) Phil, you fool, I can’t see you. Come nearer.
CAPT. G. Minnie! Minnie! It’s me – you know me?
VOICE. (Mockingly.) Of course I do. Who does not know the man who was so cruel to his wife – almost the only one he ever had?
CAPT. G. Yes, dear. Yes – of course, of course. But won’t you speak to him? He wants to speak to you so much.
VOICE. They’d never let him in. The Doctor would give darwaza bund even if he were in the house. He’ll never come. (Despairingly.) O Judas! Judas! Judas!
CAPT. G. (Putting out his arms.) They have let him in, and he always was in the house Oh, my love – don’t you know me?
VOICE. (In a half chant.) “And it came to pass at the eleventh hour that this poor soul repented.” It knocked at the gates, but they were shut – tight as a plaster – a great, burning plaster They had pasted our marriage certificate all across the door, and it was made of red-hot iron – people really ought to be more careful, you know.
CAPT. G. What am I to do? (Taking her in his arms.) Minnie! speak to me – to Phil.
VOICE. What shall I say? Oh, tell me what to say before it’s too late! They are all going away and I can’t say anything.
CAPT. G. Say you know me! Only say you know me!
DOCTOR. (Who has entered quietly.) For pity’s sake don’t take it too much to heart, Gadsby. It’s this way sometimes. They won’t recognize. They say all sorts of queer things – don’t you see?
CAPT. G. All right! All right! Go away now; she’ll recognize me; you’re bothering her. She must – mustn’t she?
DOCTOR. She will before – Have I your leave to try? —
CAPT. G. Anything you please, so long as she’ll know me. It’s only a question of – hours, isn’t it?
DOCTOR. (Professionally.) While there’s life there’s hope y’know. But don’t build on it.
CAPT. G. I don’t. Pull her together if it’s possible. (Aside.) What have I done to deserve this?
DOCTOR. (Bending over bed.) Now, Mrs. Gadsby! We shall be all right tomorrow. You must take it, or I sha’n’t let Phil see you. It isn’t nasty, is it?
Voice. Medicines! Always more medicines! Can’t you leave me alone?
CAPT. G. Oh, leave her in peace, Doc!
DOCTOR. (Stepping back, – aside.) May I be forgiven if I’ve none wrong. (Aloud.) In a few minutes she ought to be sensible; but I daren’t tell you to look for anything. It’s only —
CAPT. G. What? Go on, man.
DOCTOR. (In a whisper.) Forcing the last rally.
CAPT. G. Then leave us alone.
DOCTOR. Don’t mind what she says at first, if you can. They – they-they turn against those they love most sometimes in this. – It’s hard, but —
CAPT. G. Am I her husband or are you? Leave us alone for what time we have together.
VOICE. (Confidentially.) And we were engaged quite suddenly, Emma. I assure you that I never thought of it for a moment; but, oh, my little Me! – I don’t know what I should have done if he hadn’t proposed.
CAPT. G. She thinks of that Deercourt girl before she thinks of me. (Aloud.) Minnie!
VOICE. Not from the shops, Mummy dear. You can get the real leaves from Kaintu, and (laughing weakly) never mind about the blossoms – Dead white silk is only fit for widows, and I won’t wear it. It’s as bad as a winding sheet. (A long pause.)
CAPT. G. I never asked a favor yet. If there is anybody to listen to me, let her know me – even if I die too!
VOICE. (Very faintly.) Pip, Pip dear.
CAPT. G. I’m here, darling.
VOICE. What has happened? They’ve been bothering me so with medicines and things, and they wouldn’t let you come and see me. I was never ill before. Am I ill now?
CAPT. G. You – you aren’t quite well.
VOICE. How funny! Have I been ill long?
CAPT. G. Some day; but you’ll be all right in a little time.
VOICE. Do you think so, Pip? I don’t feel well and – Oh! what have they done to my hair?
CAPT. G. I d-d-on’t know.
VOICE. They’ve cut it off. What a shame!
CAPT. G. It must have been to make your head cooler.
VOICE. Just like a boy’s wig. Don’t I look horrid?
CAPT. G. Never looked prettier in your life, dear. (Aside.) How am I to ask her to say good-bye?
VOICE. I don’t feel pretty. I feel very ill. My heart won’t work. It’s nearly dead inside me, and there’s a funny feeling in my eyes. Everything seems the same distance – you and the almirah and the table inside my eyes or miles away. What does it mean, Pip?
CAPT. G. You’re a little feverish, Sweetheart – very feverish. (Breaking down.) My love! my love! How can I let you go?
VOICE. I thought so. Why didn’t you tell me that at first?
CAPT. G. What?
VOICE. That I am going to – die.
CAPT. G. But you aren’t! You sha’n’t.
AYAH to punkah-coolie. (Stepping into veranda after a glance at the bed. ). Punkah chor do! (Stop pulling the punkah.)
VOICE. It’s hard, Pip. So very, very hard after one year – just one year.
(Wailing.) And I’m only twenty. Most girls aren’t even married at twenty. Can’t they do anything to help me? I don’t want to die.
CAPT. G. Hush, dear. You won’t.
VOICE. What’s the use of talking? Help me! You’ve never failed me yet. Oh, Phil, help me to keep alive. (Feverishly.) I don’t believe you wish me to live. You weren’t a bit sorry when that horrid Baby thing died. I wish I’d killed it!
CAPT. G. (Drawing his hand across his forehead.) It’s more than a man’s meant to bear – it’s not right. (Aloud.) Minnie, love, I’d die for you if it would help.
VOICE. No more death. There’s enough already. Pip, don’t you die too.
CAPT. G. I wish I dared.
VOICE. It says: “Till Death do us part.” Nothing after that – and so it would be no use. It stops at the dying. Why does it stop there? Only such a very short life, too. Pip, I’m sorry we married.
CAPT. G. No! Anything but that, Mm!
VOICE. Because you’ll forget and I’ll forget. Oh, Pip, don’t forget! I always loved you, though I was cross sometimes. If I ever did anything that you didn’t like, say you forgive me now.
CAPT. G. You never did, darling. On my soul and honor you never did. I haven’t a thing to forgive you.
VOICE. I sulked for a whole week about those petunias. (With a laugh.) What a little wretch I was, and how grieved you were! Forgive me that, Pp.
CAPT. G. There’s nothing to forgive. It was my fault. They were too near the drive. For God’s sake don’t talk so, Minnie! There’s such a lot to say and so little time to say it in.
VOICE. Say that you’ll always love me – until the end.
CAPT. G. Until the end. (Carried away.) It’s a lie. It must be, because we’ve loved each other. This isn’t the end.
VOICE. (Relapsing into semi-delirium.) My Church-service has an ivory-cross on the back, and it says so, so it must be true. “Till Death do us part.” – but that’s a lie. (With a parody of G.‘s manner.) A damned lie! (Recklessly.) Yes, I can swear as well as a Trooper, Pip. I can’t make my head think, though. That’s because they cut off my hair. How can one think with one’s head all fuzzy? (Pleadingly.) Hold me, Pip! Keep me with you always and always. (Relapsing.) But if you marry the Thorniss girl when I’m dead, I’ll come back and howl under our bedroom window all night. Oh, bother! You’ll think I’m a jackall. Pip, what time is it?
CAPT. G. A little before the dawn, dear.
VOICE. I wonder where I shall be this time to-morrow?
CAPT. G. Would you like to see the Padre?
VOICE. Why should I? He’d tell me that I am going to heaven; and that wouldn’t be true, because you are here. Do you recollect when he upset the cream-ice all over his trousers at the Gassers’ tennis?
CAPT. G. Yes, dear.
VOICE. I often wondered whether he got another pair of trousers; but then his are so shiny all over that you really couldn’t tell unless you were told. Let’s call him in and ask.
CAPT. G. (Gravely.) No. I don’t think he’d like that. ‘Your head comfy, Sweetheart?’
VOICE. (Faintly with a sigh of contentment.) Yeth! Gracious, Pip, when did you shave last? Your chin’s worse than the barrel of a musical box. – No, don’t lift it up. I like it. (A pause.) You said you’ve never cried at all. You’re crying all over my cheek.
CAPT. G. I – I – I can’t help it, dear.
VOICE. How funny! I couldn’t cry now to save my life. (G. shivers.) I want to sing.
CAPT. G. Won’t it tire you? ‘Better not, perhaps.
VOICE. Why? I won’t be bothered about. (Begins in a hoarse quaver)
“Minnie bakes oaten cake, Minnie brews ale, All because her Johnnie’s coming home from the sea. (That’s parade, Pip.) And she grows red as a rose, who was so pale; And ‘Are you sure the church – clock goes?’ says she.”
(Pettishly.) I knew I couldn’t take the last note. How do the bass chords run? (Puts out her hands and begins playing piano on the sheet.)
CAPT. G. (Catching up hands.) Ahh! Don’t do that, Pussy, if you love me.
VOICE. Love you? Of course I do. Who else should it be? (A pause.)
VOICE. (Very clearly.) Pip, I’m going now. Something’s choking me cruelly. (Indistinctly.) Into the dark – without you, my heart – But it’s a lie, dear – we mustn’t believe it. – Forever and ever, living or dead. Don’t let me go, my husband – hold me tight. – They can’t – whatever happens. (A cough.) Pip – my Pip! Not for always – and – so – soon! (Voice ceases.)
Pause of ten minutes. G. buries his face in the side of the bed while AYAH bends over bed from opposite side and feels MRS. G.‘s breast and forehead.
CAPT. G. (Rising.) Doctor Sahib ko salaam do.
AYAH. (Still by bedside, with a shriek.) Ail Ail Tuta-phuta! My Memsahib! Not getting – not have got! – Pusseena agyal (The sweat has come.) (Fiercely to G.) TUM jao Doctor Sahib ko jaldi! (You go to the doctor.) Oh, my Memsahib!
DOCTOR. (Entering hastily.) Come away, Gadsby. (Bends over bed.) Eb! The Dev – What inspired you to stop the punkab? Get out, man – go away – wait outside! Go! Here, Ayah! (Over his shoulder to G.) Mind I promise nothing.
The dawn breaks as G. stumbles into the garden.
CAPT. M. (Rehung up at the gate on his way to parade and very soberly.) Old man, how goes?
CAPT. G. (Dazed.) I don’t quite know. Stay a bit. Have a drink or something. Don’t run away. You’re just getting amusing. Ha! ha!
CAPT. M. (Aside.) What am I let in for? Gaddy has aged ten years in the night.
CAPT. G. (Slowly, fingering charger’s headstall.) Your curb’s too loose.
CAPT. M. So it is. Put it straight, will you? (Aside.) I shall be late for parade. Poor Gaddy.
CAPT. G. links and unlinks curb-chain aimlessly, and finally stands staring toward the veranda. The day brightens.
DOCTOR. (Knocked out of professional gravity, tramping across flower-beds and shaking G’s hands.) It’ – it’s – it’s! – Gadsby, there’s a fair chance – a dashed fair chance. The flicker, y’know. The sweat, y’know I saw how it would be. The punkab, y’know. Deuced clever woman that Ayah of yours. Stopped the punkab just at the right time. A dashed good chance! No – you don’t go in. We’ll pull her through yet I promise on my reputation – under Providence. Send a man with this note to Bingle. Two heads better than one. ‘Specially the Ayah! We’ll pull her round. (Retreats hastily to house.)
CAPT. G. (His head on neck of M.‘s charger.) Jack! I bub – bu – believe, I’m going to make a bu-bub-bloody exhibit of byself.
CAPT. M. (Sniffing openly and feeling in his left cuff.) I b-b-believe, I’b doing it already. Old bad, what cad I say? I’b as pleased as – Cod dab you, Gaddy! You’re one big idiot and I’b adother. (Pulling himself together.) Sit tight! Here comes the Devil-dodger.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Who is not in the Doctor’s confidence.) We – we are only men in these things, Gadsby. I know that I can say nothing now to help.
CAPT. M. (jealously.) Then don’t say it Leave him alone. It’s not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It’ll do you good. I can’t go.