Smiths. Yes?
Ste. I've been paying a call—afternoon call on some friends of mine in the Polygon.
Bam. What!
Ste. Take it easy, Sam. (Chuckles.) Aye, they wanted the Council to petition Sir Charles not to sell. Tried to get me to do it for 'em.
Smiths. Good, that.
Ste. Well, we'd a little talk, Mr. Vining and I, and we come to a sort of a compromise.
Smiths. Compromise?
Bam. Compromise! Verity? I don't like that word.
Ste. Finish was, they've written to Sir Charles asking him to sell the town their grass plat—tennis courts and what-not—if he'll leave their houses alone.
Bam. Verity, I don't like this. Ask me, it sounds like treachery to the company.