Whick. A peck of opals.
Blick. Fair, fair! But we ought to work longer hours.
Flick. Yes, what's the good of coming home—except to sleep.
Glick. And have supper.
Flick. [With scorn.] Oh, that supper!
Blick. I know, I know! It's wretched. If we cook it at night it's too hot to eat; if we cook it in the morning it's cold and dusty by night; but what else can we do?
Glick. And I'd rather sleep underground than in those beds.
All. So would we!
Blick. I know! They haven't been made for twelve years. But it doesn't pay to take time from digging diamonds to make beds, so what can we do?
All. [Sighing.] Nothing.
