) 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. G. 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. G. What's the hurry?
CAPT. M. You've got to be there first.
CAPT. G. To be stared at?
CAPT. M. Exactly. You're part of the show. Where's the burnisher? Your
spurs are in a shameful state.
CAPT. G. (_Gruffly_) Jack, I be damned if you shall do that for me.
CAPT. M. (_More gruffly._) Dry up and get dressed! If I choose to
clean your spurs, you're under _my_ orders.
CAPT. G. _dresses_. M. _follows suit._
CAPT. M. (_Critically, walking round._) M'yes, you'll do. Only don't
look so like a criminal. Ring, gloves, fees--that's all right for me.
Let your moustache alone. Now, if the ponies are ready, we'll go.
CAPT. G. (_Nervously.
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