Helms [irritably]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau?
Krakau. How should I know—
Helms [interrupts]. You know it is in the closet. [Krakau takes bottle and glasses from the cupboard.]
Hammer [delighted]. Did you say wine?
Buffe. Wine! Did you hear?
Hansen. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself.
Johnston. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can tell you—he has stockings full of good red gold.
[Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now shines full in the room.]
Krakau. Hadn't we better push the tables together.
Helms [petulantly]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well without your table.