CYRUS. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?

CARVE. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?

CYRUS. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If
you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the
front-door steps and your things after you.

CARVE. I've got something to tell you----

CYRUS. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this dispatch
box?

CARVE. Yes.

CYRUS. Where are his keys?

CARVE. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.

CYRUS. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?

CARVE. Yes.

CYRUS. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!

(CARVE sits down negligently and smiles.)

CYRUS. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing at?