Joe: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun shells. (as Porter shoves him a couple of pills) Thankee, boss. (he resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh) Ah bet you is tahd when you gets done wid dat line. (silence) Dey mussa been two hundred men in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to do em no good. (he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his desk lost in thought) Misteh Porteh—
Porter: Well?
Joe: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.
Porter: There is.
Joe: Dey sho is one mountain of misery in dis place!
Porter (looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball, and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the basket is full to overflowing): See here, don’t you remember my saying anything to you about keeping a little room at least on the top of this trash-basket?
Joe: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an tearin it up.
Porter: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?
Joe: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets. But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through de holes!
Porter: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.