BROOME. You’re a cool customer.
LEONARD. And how do you propose to get along, Mr. Broome?
BROOME. It’s them bloomin’ taxis that’s done for me.
MARY. Can’t you drive one, father?
BROOME. They wouldn’t give me a try if I wanted. And I don’t want. I wouldn’t touch the things.
LEONARD. You’ve had the bad luck to be attached to a decaying industry.
BROOME. Decaying my eye! There’s no call for it to decay.
LEONARD. You don’t hold with modern notions—progress and things, Mr. Broome?
BROOME. I don’t hold with taxis. They’ll find out their mistake.
MRS. BROOME. He will talk like that.