Dick. Soon get ’em. Sparkle shall set his type-writer to work, and you must set your wits. I’ll give you a wholesale order.
Ned. I’m a slow worker; I’m afraid I couldn’t execute it.
Alma. Why not? What’s the difficulty?
Ned. I can’t think of a plot.
Alma. I’ll give you one.
Sir H. (coming down) You, Miss Blake! (Dick laughs)
Alma. (to Dick) What are you laughing at?
Dick. (sitting down at back, L.C.) Your plot. A nice old hash up it’ll be.
Alma. You haven’t heard it.
Dick. Don’t want to hear it. All been done before!