SERGIUS.
Assuredly she shall not be the loser.
PETKOFF.
So much the better for her. I shan’t come off so cheap, I expect. (The change is now complete. Nicola goes out with the discarded coat.) Ah, now I feel at home at last. (He sits down and takes his newspaper with a grunt of relief.)
BLUNTSCHLI.
(to Sergius, handing a paper). That’s the last order.
PETKOFF.
(jumping up). What! finished?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Finished. (Petkoff goes beside Sergius; looks curiously over his left shoulder as he signs; and says with childlike envy) Haven’t you anything for me to sign?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Not necessary. His signature will do.
PETKOFF.
Ah, well, I think we’ve done a thundering good day’s work. (He goes away from the table.) Can I do anything more?
BLUNTSCHLI.
You had better both see the fellows that are to take these. (To Sergius.) Pack them off at once; and shew them that I’ve marked on the orders the time they should hand them in by. Tell them that if they stop to drink or tell stories—if they’re five minutes late, they’ll have the skin taken off their backs.
SERGIUS.
(rising indignantly). I’ll say so. And if one of them is man enough to spit in my face for insulting him, I’ll buy his discharge and give him a pension. (He strides out, his humanity deeply outraged.)
BLUNTSCHLI.
(confidentially). Just see that he talks to them properly, Major, will you?