Capt. G. It's absurd. I sha'n't sleep, I know I sha'n't!
Falls into heavy doze at end of seven minutes. Capt. M. watches him tenderly.
Capt. M. Poor old Gadsby! I've seen a few turned off before, but never one who went to the gallows in this condition. 'Can't tell how it affects 'em, though. It's the thoroughbreds that sweat when they're backed into double-harness.—And that's the man who went through the guns at Amdheran like a devil possessed of devils. (Leans over G.) But this is worse than the guns, old pal—worse than the guns, isn't it? (G. turns in his sleep, and M. touches him clumsily on the forehead.) Poor, dear old Gaddy! Going like the rest of 'em—going like the rest of 'em—Friend that sticketh closer than a brother—eight years. Dashed bit of a slip of a girl—eight weeks! And—where's your friend? (Smokes disconsolately till church clock strikes three.)
Capt. M. Up with you! Get into your kit.
Capt. C. Already? Isn't it too soon? Hadn't I better have a shave?
Capt. M. No! You're all right. (Aside.) He'd chip his chin to pieces.
Capt. C. What's the hurry?
Capt. M. You've got to be there first.
Capt. C. To be stared at?
Capt. M. Exactly. You're part of the show. Where's the burnisher? Your spurs are in a shameful state.