far. He asked me at once if it was cholera, and I told him not to be
a fool. That soothed him.

CURTIS. Poor devil! The funk does half the business in a man of
that build.

ANTHONY. (Lighting a cheroot.) I firmly believe the funk will
kill him if he stays down. You know the amount of trouble he's
been giving Fewton for the last three weeks. He's doing his very
best to frighten himself into the grave.

GENERAL CHORUS. Poor little devil! Why doesn't he get away?

ANTHONY. 'Can't. He has his leave all right, but he's so dipped he
can't take it, and I don't think his name on paper would raise four
annas. That's in confidence, though.

MACKESY. All the Station knows it.

ANTHONY. "I suppose I shall have to die here," he said,
squirming all across the bed. He's quite made up his mind to
Kingdom Come. And I know he has nothing more than a
wet-weather tummy if he could only keep a hand on himself.

BLAYNE. That's bad. That's very bad. Poor little Miggy. Good
little chap, too. I say-

ANTHONY. What do you say?

BLAYNE. Well, look here-anyhow. If it's like that-as you say-I