Brodie. Will you tell me your errand?
Moore. You’re dry, ain’t you?
Brodie. Am I?
Moore. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with us.
Brodie. Is it?
Moore. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to is to put up the Excise.
Smith. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it’s breaking George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must!
Brodie. Must we?
Moore. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do.
Brodie. That’s lucky. I don’t.