Porter: He didn’t write it down.
Purzon: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me I was to have digitalis.
Porter: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.
Purzon: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble as if he was keepin’ dogs.
Porter (sternly): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the doctor, say it to him.
Purzon (snarling): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!
Porter: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.
(The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with his stick; the last of the line moves off.)
Joe (coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow, in the thirties): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little tention befo you shuts up de boxes?
Porter: What is it?