The Man.
I cannot stay;—
I've four—five—babes of bread bereft!
The Mayor.
[Facetiously.]
You don't know just how many, en
The Man.
One was e'en dying when I left.
The Mayor.
Hold. You are enter'd, are you not?
[Examines his papers.]
No. Yes, you are though. Well for you.
[To the Clerk.]
Give Number Twenty-nine his lot.
Come, come, good folks, be patient, do!
Nils Snemyr?
The Man.
Ay, ay!
The Mayor.
We must pare
A quarter off your former share.
You're fewer now, you know.
The Man.
Yes, yes,—
My Ragnhild died yestreen.
The Mayor.
[Making a note.]
One less.
Saving is saving, howsoe'er.
[To the Man, who is retiring.]
