"How come you make so much? My fadda and mudda both work and they only make six hundred and fifty."

That cat kind of blew it there. That’s way over the poverty line, about double, in fact. It‘s even above the guideline for a family of twelve. You can see that fact register with Flak Catcher, and he‘s trying to work up the nerve to make the devastating comeback. But he not about to talk back to these giants.

"Listen, Brudda. Why don‘t you give up your paycheck for summer jobs? You ain‘t doing [nothing]."

"Welllll" - - The Flak Catcher grins, he sweats, he hangs over the back of the chair - -

Ba-ram-ba-ram-ba-ram-ba-ram - - "Yeah, Brudda! Give us your paycheck!"

There it is... the ultimate horror... He can see it now, he can hear it ... Fifteen tons of it... It’s horrible.., it’s possible... It’s so obscene it just might happen... Huge Polynesian monsters marching down to his office every payday... Hand it over, Brudda... ripping it out of his very fingers... eternally.

He wrings his hands... the little muscles around his mouth are going haywire. He tries to recapture his grin, but those little amok muscles pull his lips up into an 0, like they were drawstrings.

"I’d gladly give up my salary," says the Flak Catcher. "I’d gladly do it, if it would do any good. But can‘t you see, gentlemen, it would be just a drop in the bucket... just a drop in the bucket!" This phrase, “a drop in the bucket,“ seems to give him heart... it’s something to hang onto... an answer... a reprieve.... "Just consider what we have to do in this city alone, gentlemen! All of us! It‘s just a drop in the bucket!"

The Samoans can‘t come up with any answer to this, so the Flak Catcher keeps going.