_
THE ARCHBISHOP. Good day, Mr President.
BURGE-LUBIN. Good day, Mr Archbishop. Be seated.
THE ARCHBISHOP [_sitting down between them_] Good day, Mr Accountant
General.
BARNABAS [_malevolently_] Good day to you. I have a question to put to
you, if you don't mind.
THE ARCHBISHOP [_looking curiously at him, jarred by his uncivil tone_]
Certainly. What is it?
BARNABAS. What is your definition of a thief?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Rather an old-fashioned word, is it not?
BARNABAS. It survives officially in my department.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Our departments are full of survivals. Look at my tie!
my apron! my boots! They are all mere survivals; yet it seems that
without them I cannot be a proper Archbishop.
BARNABAS. Indeed! Well, in my department the word thief survives,
because in the community the thing thief survives. And a very despicable
and dishonorable thing he is, too.
THE ARCHBISHOP [_coolly_] I daresay.
BARNABAS. In my department, sir, a thief is a person who lives longer
than the statutory expectation of life entitles him to, and goes on
drawing public money when, if he were an honest man, he would be dead.
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