G. (Jerking his head over his shoulder.) She doesn't seem
to thrive in this God-forsaken country, and there's The Butcha to
be considered and all that, you know.
CAPT. M. Does she say that she doesn't like India?
CAPT. G. That's the worst of it. She won't for fear of leaving me.
CAPT. M. What are the Hills made for?
CAPT. G. Not for my wife, at any rate.
CAPT. M. You know too much, Gaddy, and -I don't like you any
the better for it!
CAPT. G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The Butcha
would be all the better for it. I'm going to chuck. You don't
understand.
CAPT. M. (Hotly.) I understand this One hundred and
thirty-seven new horse to be licked into shape somehow before
Luck comes round again; a hairy-heeled draft who'll give more
trouble than the horses; a camp next cold weather for a certainty;
ourselves the first on the roster; the Russian shindy ready to come
to a head at five minutes' notice, and you, the best of us all,
backing out of it all! Think a little, Gaddy. You won't do it.
CAPT. G. Hang it, a man has some duties toward his family, I
suppose.
CAPT. M. I remember a man, though, who told me, the night after
Amdheran, when we were picketed under Jagai, and he'd left his
sword-by the way, did you ever pay Ranken for that sword?-in an
Utmanzai's head-that man told me that he'd stick by me and the
Pinks as long as he lived.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123