JACK (looking at watch). Nine o’clock! I wonder if my dear, excellent old aunt is still indulging in a horizontal position? We reached town so late last night, I was afraid to disturb the dear old soul. (Looking round him.) Blunt, it strikes me we shall find our quarters here very comfortable—eh? (falling into chair and stretching out his legs).
BLUNT. I think so too, your honor (imitating JACK, then jumping up again and saluting). Beg pardon, your honor! but when you say our quarters—
JACK. I mean our quarters! You wouldn’t think of leaving me, you brute, would you? Haven’t we spent the last ten years of our lives together—more or less respectably?—and if I have got back to Old England again, sound in wind and limb, who have I to thank? who but you, you fine faithful old dog you (laying his hand on BLUNT’S shoulder).
BLUNT (deprecatingly). Oh! oh!
JACK. If you forget a certain sabre cut I received at the Alma, I don’t.
BLUNT. Oh! oh! just a little bit of a scratch.
JACK. Exactly; a little bit of a scratch that began at the top of my head and finished at the tip of my nose! I was lying on my back faint and sick, when a noble, lion-hearted fellow cut his way through the Russian cavalry at the risk of his life, the idiot, threw me across his horse, and saved me! That noble, lion-hearted idiot was Stephen Blunt—bless him! But enough of the past! By-the-bye, Blunt, as long as you are stationed here you must make it a point of finding everybody and everything about you charming, delightful—in short, first chop!
BLUNT (touching his cap). All right, your honor!
MRS. TARLETAN (heard without). If I am wanted, Martha, you’ll find me in the garden.