Denethor:
"Milord!" Húrin of the Keys gestured wildly for Denethor's attention. "There's a problem! We have-"
Denethor raised a hand brusquely, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
"What now? Haven't we had enough problems thus far? Be gone, and let me drive in peace!"
"But what if it affects the city?" asked Faramir. "Surely, we cannot drive if the Engine Room is damaged!"
"Is the Engine Room damaged?" Denethor snapped to Húrin.
"N-n-n-no," said Húrin, "but-"
"There, see?" Denethor retorted to Faramir.
"Well, other parts of the city-" Faramir began, but Denethor swung back to Húrin.
"Is the movement of the city in any way impeded?" he demanded.
"N-n-n-no..." Húrin began.
"Then forget the whining, and let's get on with this job! We have a race to win!"
"But the wights, milord!" Húrin finally broke through his stuttering. "They're drinking the Royal Cellar dry!"
"Whites? The laundry has got into the cellar?" Faramir was puzzled.
"No, Wights! Barrow-wights!" Húrin persisted. "There's a whole clan of them in the wine-cellars, and they're drinking us dry!"
"Is that it?" Denethor scoffed. "What do I care? It's not even my cellar! What do I care if they drink Thorongil's wine? In fact... we are being unmannerly! Faramir, go down to the cellars, and keep our guests company. We may need their help if we encounter any more disturbances before the Grey Havens. Oh, and the key to Thorongil's private brandy cupboard is under the doormat to his rooms."
"But... but..." Faramir began.
"No buts!" Denethor insisted. "I've got a city to drive!
West-South-West!"