Mr. Polyblock. Well, what is it? He's got the money of course—I'm always had, seems to me. D'ye want any more cheques? If you'd been half sharp enough he'd never have been there.
Gayters. You won't want no more cheques, unless you're drove to dummying all round him.
Mr. Polyblock. Dummy, sir! Damme! What d'ye mean by that expression? Are you aware that I'm a member of the Hupper 'Ouse, Mr. Gayters?
Gayters. Beg pardon, sir. I meant perhaps other parties might desire to select on his pre-lease and might want a bit of assistance, like.
Mr. Polyblock. That's another matter! I always make a point of advancing money to the struggling free selector—as long as I get a proper mortgage on the land—Bonus Allround sees to that. But about this young chap?
Gayters. He won't take the cheque; all but threw it at me.
Mr. Polyblock (much astonished). Won't take the cheque! and won't go out?
Gayters. Not he; won't hear of it. Called you and—well his language was horful!
Mr. Polyblock. What did he call me—me?
Gayters. Said we was a pair of damned scoundrels! and he'd kick me off his ground.
Mr. Polyblock (solemnly). This is what the country's a-comin' to! What with universal sufferage, bushranging, and free selection—as is land robbery by Act of Parliament—pore old Australia ain't a country for a gentleman to live in. Are you sure he called me, the Hon'ble Rufus Polyblock, a scoundrel, or was it only you?
Gayters. Both of us, sure as I'm alive. 'Take this to your master,' says he, 'with my scorn and contempt.' He talked like a chap I see at that circus last shearin'. He looked grand, I tell you, sir.
Hon'ble Rufus (gloomily). He won't look so grand when I've done with him. He's got no stock yet?
