The Secret of N•I•M•H1982

[inside a derelict tractor]

Mrs. Brisby:
Mr. Ages? Mr. Ages? Is anybody home?

Mr. Ages:
Go away!

Mrs. Brisby:
Mr. Ages!

Mr. Ages:
What is it?

Mrs. Brisby:
Mr. Ages, may I please speak to you?

Mr. Ages:
What?

Mrs. Brisby:
I said, "May I please speak..." [Mr. Ages appears, coughing behind Mrs. Brisby] [shocked gasp] "...with you?" Oh, thank goodness. I'm so glad you're home.

Mr. Ages:
Confounded machine! You never know when it's going to up and blow!

Mrs. Brisby:
Yes. I don't suppose you would remember me.

Mr. Ages:
Yes, you're Mrs. Brisby. And I'm sorry about your husband's death. Now if you'd excuse me.

Mrs. Brisby:
Mr. Ages!

Mr. Ages:
Great Jupiter, woman! What do you want?!

Mrs. Brisby:
Mr. Ages, I know you don't like visitors, but this is an emergency. Please--

[a sudden explosion shatters the tractor, sending Mr. Ages down in a basket. Mrs. Brisby comes over to him as he nears the basket.]

Mr. Ages:
Ma-- [coughs] Madam, that is an emergency.

Mrs. Brisby:
[worried] Oh, Mr. Ages, my son Timothy is so sick.

Mr. Ages:
Timmy? The one with the spider bite? Oh, just give him some pepsissiwa root and--

Mrs. Brisby:
[interrupts; more worried] No! No, he's sick with a fever.

Mr. Ages:
Well, I suppose I could fix up something.

Mrs. Brisby:
Oh, thank you.

Mr. Ages:
Follow me, but don't touch anything. Understand?