Mr. Beetle. Yes, you—you lump of rubbish.
Mrs. Beetle. Silly swine.
Mr. Beetle. Fathead.
Mrs. Beetle. Fathead yourself—mind where you’re going.
They enter, rolling a huge ball of dirt.
Mr. Beetle. It’s all right, isn’t it?
Mrs. Beetle. I’m all of a tremble.
Mr. Beetle. Our capital—that’s what it is—our lovely capital—careful—careful.
Mrs. Beetle. Can’t be too careful with our capital—our little pile.
Mr. Beetle. How we’ve saved and scraped and toiled and moiled to come by it.