Scythe.
A pond is your rainbow come to earth.
Bluegrass.
I must swim. Oh, Mayor Whetstone, let us all swim!
Scythe [writing in his note-book].
The pre-Adamite instinct in the presence of its primary environment manifests increasing ratio.
Bluegrass.
Professor, take your increasing ratio and slide down to the imponderable roots of the sea. I must get out of this prison of clothes, and into the water.
Whetstone.
Major, try to feel comfortable with your clothes on, for you’d soon be imprisoned without them.