He had barely seated himself when the polite man, who had come first
hot and short of breath into the room, crossed the floor and leaning
over the table said with a smile and the gentlest voice, "I think, sir,
you ought to know that we are all very poor men."

"I, too," replied Wogan, "am an Irishman."

The polite man leaned farther across the table; his voice became
wheedling in its suavity. "I think you ought to know that we are all
very poor men."

"The repetition of the remark," said Wogan, "argues certainly a poverty
of ideas."

"We wish to become less poor."

"It is an aspiration which has pushed many men to creditable feats."

"You can help us."

"My prayers are at your disposal," said Wogan.

"By more than your prayers;" and he added in a tone of apology, "there
are five of us."

"Then I have a guinea apiece for you," and Wogan thrust the table a
little away from him to search his pockets. It also gave him more play.

"We do not want your money. You have a letter which we can coin."