THE SWELLING OF JORDAN.
SCENE.—The Gadsby's bungalow in the Plains, on a January morning. Mrs. G. arguing with bearer in back verandah. Captain Mafflin rides up.
Captain M.—'Mornin', Mrs. Gadsby. How's the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Proprietor?
Mrs. G.—You'll find them in the front verandah; go through the house. I'm Martha just now.
Captain M.—'Cumbered about with cares of housekeeping? I fly.
Passes into front verandah, where Gadsby is watching Gadsby junior, ætat. ten months, crawling about the matting.
Captain M.—What's the trouble, Gaddy—spoiling an honest man's Europe morning this way? (Seeing G., junior.} By Jove, that yearling's comin' on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee there.
Captain G.—Yes, he's a healthy little scoundrel. Don't you think his hair's growing?
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?
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?
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
