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?