Surveyor (suddenly).  By the way, I suppose this wall is properly underpinned?

Builder (nervously).  Well—­er—­not exackly—­but, ’er, ’er—­well, the fact is I thought—­

Surveyor (sternly).  What you thought, Sir, doesn’t affect the matter.  The question is, what the Building Act says.  The whole thing must come down!

Builder.  But, I say, that’ll run me into ten pounds, at least, and really the thing’s as safe as—­

Surveyor.  Maybe, maybe—­in fact, I don’t say it isn’t.  But the Act says it’s got to be done.

Builder.  Well, well, if there’s no help for it, I must do it, of course.

Surveyor (looking somehow disappointed).  Very sorry, of course, but you see what must be must.

Builder (sadly).  Yes, yes, no doubt.  Well (brightening), anyhow, we may as well step over to the “Crown and Thistle,” and crack a bottle of champagne.

Surveyor (also brightening).  Well, ours is a dusty job, and I don’t care if I do.

[They do so.  Surveyor drinks his full share of Heidsieck, and smokes a cigar of full size and flavour.  He and Builder exchange reminiscences concerning past professional experiences, the “tricks of trade,” diverse devices for “dodging the Act,” &c., &c.  Surveyor explains how stubborn builders ("not like you, you know"), who don’t do the thing handsome, often suffer by having to run themselves to expenses that might have been avoided—­and serve ’em right too!  Also, how others, without a temper above “tips,” and of a generally gentlemanly tone of mind, save themselves lots of little extras, which, maybe, the letter of the law would exact, but which a Surveyor of sense and good feeling can get over, “and no harm done, neither, to nobody.”  As the wine circulates, it is noticeable that good-fellowship grows almost boisterous, and facetiousness mellows into chuckling cynicism of the winking, waggish, “we all do it” sort.

Surveyor (tossing off last glass, and smacking his lips).  Well, well, the best of friends must part, and I guess I must be toddling.  Very glad to have met you, I’m sure, and a better bit of building than yours yonder I haven’t seen for some time.  Seems a pity, hanged if it don’t, that you should have to put yourself to such an additional outlay—­ah, by the way, what did you say it would cost you?

Builder.  Oh, about ten pounds, I suppose.

Surveyor (lighting another cigar).  Humph! (Puff’ puff!) Pity—­pity! (Puff! puff!) Now look here, my boy—­(confidentially)—­suppose you and me just divide that tenner between us, five to you, and five to me; and, as to the “underpinning”—­well, nobody’ll be a bit the wiser, and the building won’t be a halfpenny the worse, I’ll bet my boots.  Come, is it a bargain?