_Tro_. Well, Menippus, Amphilochus can take his own line, if he likes; as for me, I _am_ a Hero, and _do_ give oracles to any one who comes down to me. It is pretty clear you were never at Lebadea, or you would not be so incredulous. _Me_. What do you mean? I must go to Lebadea, swaddle myself up in absurd linen, take a cake in my hand, and crawl through a narrow passage into a cave, before I could tell that you are a dead man, with nothing but knavery to differentiate you from the rest of us? Now, on your seer-ship, what _is_ a Hero? I am sure _I_ don't know. _Tro_. He is half God, and half man. _Me_. So what is neither man (as you imply) nor God, is both at once? Well, at present what has become of your diviner half? _Tro_. He gives oracles in Boeotia. _Me_. What you may mean is quite beyond me; the one thing I know for certain is that you are dead—the whole of you. H. IV _Hermes. Charon_ _Her_. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will prevent any unpleasantness later on. _Ch_. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight. _Her_. One anchor, to your order, five shillings. _Ch_. That is a lot of money. _Her_. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap, fourpence. _Ch_. Five and four; put that down. _Her_. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; ten-pence. _Ch_. Down with it. _Her_. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the lot. _Ch_. They were worth the money. _Her_. That's all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay it? _Ch_. I can't just now, Hermes; we shall have a war or a plague presently, and then the passengers will come shoaling in, and I shall be able to make a little by jobbing the fares. _Her_. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid? _Ch_. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just now, as you see, owing to the peace. _Her_. That is just as well, though it does keep me waiting for my money. After all, though, Charon, in old days men were men; you remember the state they used to come down in,—all blood and wounds generally. Nowadays, a man is poisoned by his slave or his wife; or gets dropsy from overfeeding; a pale, spiritless lot, nothing like the men of old. Most of them seem to meet their end in some plot that has money for its object. _Ch_. Ah; money is in great request. _Her_. Yes; you can't blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment. F. V _Pluto. Hermes_ _Pl_. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no children, but a few thousand would-be heirs? _Her_. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well? _Pl_. Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer, please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest of them. _Her_. It would seem so strange, wouldn't it?