AUNTIE.  Very rightly!  I see!  I see! . . .

ROBERT.  So up I go through the sludge, puffin’ an’ blowin’ like a bally ole cart-’orse—­strooth, it seemed miles!  Talk abaht bee-utiful, ma’am, it ud ‘a’ done your ’eart good, it would really! Rats!—­’Undreds on em, ma’am:  I’m bitten clean through in places!  ’Owever, I pushed my way through, somehow, ‘oldin’ my nose an fightin’ for my breath, till at last I got to the end—­and then I soon saw wot was the matter! . . .

It’s under the church—­that’s where it is!  I know it’s the church, cos I ‘eard “The Church’s One Foundation” on the orgin, rumblin’ up over my ’ead!  Well, I . . .

ALL.  Yes . . . yes . . .

AUNTIE.  Why don’t you go on? . . .

ROBERT.  You’d never guess wot I saw there, not if you was to try from now till glory ’allelooyer! . . .

The biggest back-’ander, I ever did ‘av’, swelp me! . . .

[They hang on his words expectantly.]

IT AIN’T NO DRAIN AT ALL!

ALL [breathlessly].  Why, what is it, then? . . .

ROBERT.  IT’S A GRIVE!

ALL.  A grave! . . .

ROBERT.  Yus, one o’ them whoppin’ great beer-vaults as you shove big bugses’ corpses inter!  What d’yer think o’ that now?

MARY. ) Oh! . . . 
AUNTIE. ) Horrible! . . .

VICAR.  I seem to remember some tradition . . .

ROBERT, You’d ‘a’ said so if you’d seen wot I seen!  Talk abaht corfins an’ shrouds an’ bones an’ dead men gone to rot, they wasn’t in it, wot I saw dahn there!  Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it!  Lord!—­I never thought there could be such a lot o’ muck an’ dead things all in one place before!  It was a fair treat, it was, I tek my oath! . . .

[Rapturously].  Why—­why, it may cost a man ’is LIFE to deal with that little job!

VICAR.  My God!  The thing’s impossible!

ROBERT.  Impossible!  Means a bit of work, that’s all!

VICAR.  Why, no one would ever dare . . .

ROBERT.  Dare!  Why, wot d’you think I come ’ere for? . . .

VICAR. You! . . .

ROBERT.  Yus—­makin’ myself unpleasant . . .

VICAR.  Do you mean . . .  Do I understand . . .

ROBERT.  I mean as I’ve found my place, or I don’t know a good thing when I see it!

AUNTIE.  What!  To go into that dreadful vault, and . . .

ROBERT.  Why not:  ain’t it my job?

AUNTIE.  But you said—­perhaps—­death . . .

ROBERT.  It’s worth it, it’s a lovely bit of work!

VICAR.  No, ten thousand times, no!  The sacrifice is too much!

ROBERT.  You call that sacrifice?—­It’s fun:  not ’arf!

VICAR.  I had rather see the church itself . . .

ROBERT.  What, you call yourself a clergyman!

VICAR.  I call myself nothing:  I am nothing—­less than nothing in all this living world!