CAPT. M. What's the trouble, Gaddy—spoiling an honest man's Europe morning this way? (Seeing G. JUNIOR.) By Jove, that yearling's comm' on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee there.
CAPT. G. Yes, he's a healthy little scoundrel. Don't you think his hair's growing?
CAPT. M. Let's have a look. Hi! Hst Come here, General Luck, and we'll report on you.
MRS. G. (Within.) What absurd name will you give him next? Why do you call him that?
CAPT. M. Isn't he our Inspector—General of Cavalry? Doesn't he come down in his seventeen-two perambulator every morning the Pink Hussars parade? Don't wriggle, Brigadier. Give us your private opinion on the way the third squadron went past. 'Trifle ragged, weren't they?
CAPT. G. A bigger set of tailors than the new draft I don't wish to see. They've given me more than my fair share—knocking the squadron out of shape. It's sickening!
CAPT. M. When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can't you walk yet? Grip my finger and try. (To G.) 'Twon't hurt his hocks, will it?
CAPT. G. Oh, no. Don't let him flop, though, or he'll lick all the blacking off your boots.
MRS. G. (Within.) Who's destroying my son's character?
CAPT. M. And my Godson's. I'm ashamed of you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye, Jack! Don't you stand it! Hit him again!