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    Act III

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    Chapter 3
    Previous Chapter
    Next morning Broadbent and Larry are sitting at the ends of a
    breakfast table in the middle of a small grass plot before
    Cornelius Doyle's house. They have finished their meal, and are
    buried in newspapers. Most of the crockery is crowded upon a
    large square black tray of japanned metal. The teapot is of brown
    delft ware. There is no silver; and the butter, on a dinner
    plate, is en bloc. The background to this breakfast is the house,
    a small white slated building, accessible by a half-glazed door.
    A person coming out into the garden by this door would find the
    table straight in front of him, and a gate leading to the road
    half way down the garden on his right; or, if he turned sharp to
    his left, he could pass round the end of the house through an
    unkempt shrubbery. The mutilated remnant of a huge planter
    statue, nearly dissolved by the rains of a century, and vaguely
    resembling a majestic female in Roman draperies, with a wreath in
    her hand, stands neglected amid the laurels. Such statues, though
    apparently works of art, grow naturally in Irish gardens. Their
    germination is a mystery to the oldest inhabitants, to whose
    means and taste they are totally foreign.

    There is a rustic bench, much roiled by the birds, and
    decorticated and split by the weather, near the little gate. At
    the opposite side, a basket lies unmolested because it might as
    well be there as anywhere else. An empty chair at the table was
    lately occupied by Cornelius, who has finished his breakfast and
    gone in to the room in which he receives rents and keeps his
    books and cash, known in the household as "the office." This
    chair, like the two occupied by Larry and Broadbent, has a
    mahogany frame and is upholstered in black horsehair.

    Larry rises and goes off through the shrubbery with his
    newspaper. Hodson comes in through the garden gate, disconsolate.
    Broadbent, who sits facing the gate, augurs the worst from his
    expression.

    BROADBENT. Have you been to the village?

    HODSON. No use, sir. We'll have to get everything from London by
    parcel post.

    BROADBENT. I hope they made you comfortable last night.

    HODSON. I was no worse than you were on that sofa, sir. One
    expects to rough it here, sir.

    BROADBENT. We shall have to look out for some other arrangement.
    [Cheering up irrepressibly] Still, it's no end of a joke. How do
    you like the Irish, Hodson?

    HODSON. Well, sir, they're all right anywhere but in their own
    country. I've known lots of em in England, and generally liked
    em. But here, sir, I seem simply to hate em. The feeling come
    over me the moment we landed at Cork, sir. It's no use my
    pretendin, sir: I can't bear em. My mind rises up agin their
    ways, somehow: they rub me the wrong way all over.

    BROADBENT. Oh, their faults are on the surface: at heart they are
    one of the finest races on earth. [Hodson turns away, without
    affecting to respond to his enthusiasm]. By the way, Hodson--

    HODSON [turning]. Yes, sir.

    BROADBENT. Did you notice anything about me last night when I
    came in with that lady?

    HODSON [surprised]. No, sir.

    BROADBENT. Not any--er--? You may speak frankly.

    HODSON. I didn't notice nothing, sir. What sort of thing ded you
    mean, sir?

    BROADBENT. Well--er--er--well, to put it plainly, was I drunk?

    HODSON [amazed]. No, sir.

    BROADBENT. Quite sure?

    HODSON. Well, I should a said rather the opposite, sir. Usually
    when you've been enjoying yourself, you're a bit hearty like.
    Last night you seemed rather low, if anything.

    BROADBENT. I certainly have no headache. Did you try the pottine,
    Hodson?

    HODSON. I just took a mouthful, sir. It tasted of peat: oh!
    something horrid, sir. The people here call peat turf. Potcheen
    and strong porter is what they like, sir. I'm sure I don't know
    how they can stand it. Give me beer, I say.

    BROADBENT. By the way, you told me I couldn't have porridge for
    breakfast; but Mr Doyle had some.

    HODSON. Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. They call it stirabout, sir:
    that's how it was. They know no better, sir.

    BROADBENT. All right: I'll have some tomorrow.

    Hodson goes to the house. When he opens the door he finds Nora
    and Aunt Judy on the threshold. He stands aside to let them pass,
    with the air of a well trained servant oppressed by heavy trials.
    Then he goes in. Broadbent rises. Aunt Judy goes to the table and
    collects the plates and cups on the tray. Nora goes to the back
    of the rustic seat and looks out at the gate with the air of a
    woman accustomed to have nothing to do. Larry returns from the
    shrubbery.

    BROADBENT. Good morning, Miss Doyle.

    AUNT JUDY [thinking it absurdly late in the day for such a
    salutation]. Oh, good morning. [Before moving his plate] Have you
    done?

    BROADBENT. Quite, thank you. You must excuse us for not waiting
    for you. The country air tempted us to get up early.

    AUNT JUDY. N d'ye call this airly, God help you?

    LARRY. Aunt Judy probably breakfasted about half past six.

    AUNT JUDY. Whisht, you!--draggin the parlor chairs out into the
    gardn n givin Mr Broadbent his death over his meals out here in
    the cold air. [To Broadbent] Why d'ye put up with his
    foolishness, Mr Broadbent?

    BROADBENT. I assure you I like the open air.

    AUNT JUDY. Ah galong! How can you like what's not natural? I hope
    you slept well.

    NORA. Did anything wake yup with a thump at three o'clock? I
    thought the house was falling. But then I'm a very light sleeper.

    LARRY. I seem to recollect that one of the legs of the sofa in
    the parlor had a way of coming out unexpectedly eighteen years
    ago. Was that it, Tom?

    BROADBENT [hastily]. Oh, it doesn't matter: I was not hurt--at
    least--er--

    AUNT JUDY. Oh now what a shame! An I told Patsy Farrll to put a
    nail in it.

    BROADBENT. He did, Miss Doyle. There was a nail, certainly.

    AUNT JUDY. Dear oh dear!

    An oldish peasant farmer, small, leathery, peat faced, with a
    deep voice and a surliness that is meant to be aggressive, and is
    in effect pathetic--the voice of a man of hard life and many
    sorrows--comes in at the gate. He is old enough to have perhaps
    worn a long tailed frieze coat and knee breeches in his time; but
    now he is dressed respectably in a black frock coat, tall hat,
    and pollard colored trousers; and his face is as clean as washing
    can make it, though that is not saying much, as the habit is
    recently acquired and not yet congenial.

    THE NEW-COMER [at the gate]. God save all here! [He comes a
    little way into the garden].

    LARRY [patronizingly, speaking across the garden to him]. Is that
    yourself, Mat Haffigan? Do you remember me?

    MATTHEW [intentionally rude and blunt]. No. Who are you?

    NORA. Oh, I'm sure you remember him, Mr Haffigan.

    MATTHEW [grudgingly admitting it]. I suppose he'll be young Larry
    Doyle that was.

    LARRY. Yes.

    MATTHEW [to Larry]. I hear you done well in America.

    LARRY. Fairly well.

    MATTHEW. I suppose you saw me brother Andy out dhere.

    LARRY. No. It's such a big place that looking for a man there is
    like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. They tell me he's a
    great man out there.

    MATTHEW. So he is, God be praised. Where's your father?

    AUNT JUDY. He's inside, in the office, Mr Haffigan, with Barney
    Doarn n Father Dempsey.

    Matthew, without wasting further words on the company, goes
    curtly into the house.

    LARRY [staring after him]. Is anything wrong with old Mat?

    NORA. No. He's the same as ever. Why?

    LARRY. He's not the same to me. He used to be very civil to
    Master Larry: a deal too civil, I used to think. Now he's as
    surly and stand-off as a bear.

    AUNT JUDY. Oh sure he's bought his farm in the Land Purchase.
    He's independent now.

    NORA. It's made a great change, Larry. You'd harly know the old
    tenants now. You'd think it was a liberty to speak t'dhem--some o
    dhem. [She goes to the table, and helps to take off the cloth,
    which she and Aunt Judy fold up between them].

    AUNT JUDY. I wonder what he wants to see Corny for. He hasn't
    been here since he paid the last of his old rent; and then he as
    good as threw it in Corny's face, I thought.

    LARRY. No wonder! Of course they all hated us like the devil.
    Ugh! [Moodily] I've seen them in that office, telling my father
    what a fine boy I was, and plastering him with compliments, with
    your honor here and your honor there, when all the time their
    fingers were itching to beat his throat.

    AUNT JUDY. Deedn why should they want to hurt poor Corny? It was
    he that got Mat the lease of his farm, and stood up for him as an
    industrious decent man.

    BROADBENT. Was he industrious? That's remarkable, you know, in an
    Irishman.

    LARRY. Industrious! That man's industry used to make me sick,
    even as a boy. I tell you, an Irish peasant's industry is not
    human: it's worse than the industry of a coral insect. An
    Englishman has some sense about working: he never does more than
    he can help--and hard enough to get him to do that without
    scamping it; but an Irishman will work as if he'd die the moment
    he stopped. That man Matthew Haffigan and his brother Andy made a
    farm out of a patch of stones on the hillside--cleared it and dug
    it with their own naked hands and bought their first spade out of
    their first crop of potatoes. Talk of making two blades of wheat
    grow where one grew before! those two men made a whole field of
    wheat grow where not even a furze bush had ever got its head up
    between the stones.

    BROADBENT. That was magnificent, you know. Only a great race is
    capable of producing such men.

    LARRY. Such fools, you mean! What good was it to them? The moment
    they'd done it, the landlord put a rent of 5 pounds a year on
    them, and turned them out because they couldn't pay it.

    AUNT JUDY. Why couldn't they pay as well as Billy Byrne that took
    it after them?

    LARRY [angrily]. You know very well that Billy Byrne never paid
    it. He only offered it to get possession. He never paid it.

    AUNT JUDY. That was because Andy Haffigan hurt him with a brick
    so that he was never the same again. Andy had to run away to
    America for it.

    BROADBENT [glowing with indignation]. Who can blame him, Miss
    Doyle? Who can blame him?

    LARRY [impatiently]. Oh, rubbish! What's the good of the man
    that's starved out of a farm murdering the man that's starved
    into it? Would you have done such a thing?

    BROADBENT. Yes. I--I--I--I--[stammering with fury] I should have
    shot the confounded landlord, and wrung the neck of the damned
    agent, and blown the farm up with dynamite, and Dublin Castle
    along with it.

    LARRY. Oh yes: you'd have done great things; and a fat lot of
    good you'd have got out of it, too! That's an Englishman all
    over! make bad laws and give away all the land, and then, when
    your economic incompetence produces its natural and inevitable
    results, get virtuously indignant and kill the people that carry
    out your laws.

    AUNT JUDY. Sure never mind him, Mr Broadbent. It doesn't matter,
    anyhow, because there's harly any landlords left; and ther'll
    soon be none at all.

    LARRY. On the contrary, ther'll soon be nothing else; and the
    Lord help Ireland then!

    AUNT JUDY. Ah, you're never satisfied, Larry. [To Nora] Come on,
    alanna, an make the paste for the pie. We can leave them to their
    talk. They don't want us [she takes up the tray and goes into the
    house].

    BROADBENT [rising and gallantly protesting] Oh, Miss Doyle!
    Really, really--

    Nora, following Aunt Judy with the rolled-up cloth in her hands,
    looks at him and strikes him dumb. He watches her until she
    disappears; then comes to Larry and addresses him with sudden
    intensity.

    BROADBENT. Larry.

    LARRY. What is it?

    BROADBENT. I got drunk last night, and proposed to Miss Reilly.

    LARRY. You HWAT??? [He screams with laughter in the falsetto
    Irish register unused for that purpose in England].

    BROADBENT. What are you laughing at?

    LARRY [stopping dead]. I don't know. That's the sort of thing an
    Irishman laughs at. Has she accepted you?

    BROADBENT. I shall never forget that with the chivalry of her
    nation, though I was utterly at her mercy, she refused me.

    LARRY. That was extremely improvident of her. [Beginning to
    reflect] But look here: when were you drunk? You were sober
    enough when you came back from the Round Tower with her.

    BROADBENT. No, Larry, I was drunk, I am sorry to say. I had two
    tumblers of punch. She had to lead me home. You must have noticed
    it.

    LARRY. I did not.

    BROADBENT. She did.

    LARRY. May I ask how long it took you to come to business? You
    can hardly have known her for more than a couple of hours.

    BROADBENT. I am afraid it was hardly a couple of minutes. She was
    not here when I arrived; and I saw her for the first time at the
    tower.

    LARRY. Well, you are a nice infant to be let loose in this
    country! Fancy the potcheen going to your head like that!

    BROADBENT. Not to my head, I think. I have no headache; and I
    could speak distinctly. No: potcheen goes to the heart, not to
    the head. What ought I to do?

    LARRY. Nothing. What need you do?

    BROADBENT. There is rather a delicate moral question involved.
    The point is, was I drunk enough not to be morally responsible
    for my proposal? Or was I sober enough to be bound to repeat it
    now that I am undoubtedly sober?

    LARRY. I should see a little more of her before deciding.

    BROADBENT. No, no. That would not be right. That would not be
    fair. I am either under a moral obligation or I am not. I wish I
    knew how drunk I was.

    LARRY. Well, you were evidently in a state of blithering
    sentimentality, anyhow.

    BROADBENT. That is true, Larry: I admit it. Her voice has a most
    extraordinary effect on me. That Irish voice!

    LARRY [sympathetically]. Yes, I know. When I first went to London
    I very nearly proposed to walk out with a waitress in an Aerated
    Bread shop because her Whitechapel accent was so distinguished,
    so quaintly touching, so pretty--

    BROADBENT [angrily]. Miss Reilly is not a waitress, is she?

    LARRY. Oh, come! The waitress was a very nice girl.

    BROADBENT. You think every Englishwoman an angel. You really have
    coarse tastes in that way, Larry. Miss Reilly is one of the finer
    types: a type rare in England, except perhaps in the best of the
    aristocracy.

    LARRY. Aristocracy be blowed! Do you know what Nora eats?

    BROADBENT. Eats! what do you mean?

    LARRY. Breakfast: tea and bread-and-butter, with an occasional
    rasher, and an egg on special occasions: say on her birthday.
    Dinner in the middle of the day, one course and nothing else. In
    the evening, tea and bread-and-butter again. You compare her with
    your Englishwomen who wolf down from three to five meat meals a
    day; and naturally you find her a sylph. The difference is not a
    difference of type: it's the difference between the woman who
    eats not wisely but too well, and the woman who eats not wisely
    but too little.

    BROADBENT [furious]. Larry: you--you--you disgust me. You are a
    damned fool. [He sits down angrily on the rustic seat, which
    sustains the shock with difficulty].

    LARRY. Steady! stead-eee! [He laughs and seats himself on the
    table].

    Cornelius Doyle, Father Dempsey, Barney Doran, and Matthew
    Haffigan come from the house. Doran is a stout bodied, short
    armed, roundheaded, red-haired man on the verge of middle age, of
    sanguine temperament, with an enormous capacity for derisive,
    obscene, blasphemous, or merely cruel and senseless fun, and a
    violent and impetuous intolerance of other temperaments and other
    opinions, all this representing energy and capacity wasted and
    demoralized by want of sufficient training and social pressure to
    force it into beneficent activity and build a character with it;
    for Barney is by no means either stupid or weak. He is recklessly
    untidy as to his person; but the worst effects of his neglect are
    mitigated by a powdering of flour and mill dust; and his
    unbrushed clothes, made of a fashionable tailor's sackcloth, were
    evidently chosen regardless of expense for the sake of their
    appearance.

    Matthew Haffigan, ill at ease, coasts the garden shyly on the
    shrubbery side until he anchors near the basket, where he feels
    least in the way. The priest comes to the table and slaps Larry
    on the shoulder. Larry, turning quickly, and recognizing Father
    Dempsey, alights from the table and shakes the priest's hand
    warmly. Doran comes down the garden between Father Dempsey and
    Matt; and Cornelius, on the other side of the table, turns to
    Broadbent, who rises genially.

    CORNELIUS. I think we all met las night.

    DORAN. I hadn't that pleasure.

    CORNELIUS. To be sure, Barney: I forgot. [To Broadbent,
    introducing Barney] Mr Doran. He owns that fine mill you noticed
    from the car.

    BROADBENT [delighted with them all]. Most happy, Mr Doran. Very
    pleased indeed.

    Doran, not quite sure whether he is being courted or patronized,
    nods independently.

    DORAN. How's yourself, Larry?

    LARRY. Finely, thank you. No need to ask you. [Doran grins; and
    they shake hands].

    CORNELIUS. Give Father Dempsey a chair, Larry.

    Matthew Haffigan runs to the nearest end of the table and takes
    the chair from it, placing it near the basket; but Larry has
    already taken the chair from the other end and placed it in front
    of the table. Father Dempsey accepts that more central position.

    CORNELIUS. Sit down, Barney, will you; and you, Mat.

    Doran takes the chair Mat is still offering to the priest; and
    poor Matthew, outfaced by the miller, humbly turns the basket
    upside down and sits on it. Cornelius brings his own breakfast
    chair from the table and sits down on Father Dempsey's right.
    Broadbent resumes his seat on the rustic bench. Larry crosses to
    the bench and is about to sit down beside him when Broadbent
    holds him off nervously.

    BROADBENT. Do you think it will bear two, Larry?

    LARRY. Perhaps not. Don't move. I'll stand. [He posts himself
    behind the bench].

    They are all now seated, except Larry; and the session assumes a
    portentous air, as if something important were coming.

    CORNELIUS. Props you'll explain, Father Dempsey.

    FATHER DEMPSEY. No, no: go on, you: the Church has no politics.

    CORNELIUS. Were yever thinkin o goin into parliament at all,
    Larry?

    LARRY. Me!

    FATHER DEMPSEY [encouragingly] Yes, you. Hwy not?

    LARRY. I'm afraid my ideas would not be popular enough.

    CORNELIUS. I don't know that. Do you, Barney?

    DORAN. There's too much blatherumskite in Irish politics a dale
    too much.

    LARRY. But what about your present member? Is he going to retire?

    CORNELIUS. No: I don't know that he is.

    LARRY [interrogatively]. Well? then?

    MATTHEW [breaking out with surly bitterness]. We've had enough of
    his foolish talk agen lanlords. Hwat call has he to talk about
    the lan, that never was outside of a city office in his life?

    CORNELIUS. We're tired of him. He doesn't know hwere to stop.
    Every man can't own land; and some men must own it to employ
    them. It was all very well when solid men like Doran and me and
    Mat were kep from ownin land. But hwat man in his senses ever
    wanted to give land to Patsy Farrll an dhe like o him?

    BROADBENT. But surely Irish landlordism was accountable for what
    Mr Haffigan suffered.

    MATTHEW. Never mind hwat I suffered. I know what I suffered
    adhout you tellin me. But did I ever ask for more dhan the farm I
    made wid me own hans: tell me that, Corny Doyle, and you that
    knows. Was I fit for the responsibility or was I not? [Snarling
    angrily at Cornelius] Am I to be compared to Patsy Farrll, that
    doesn't harly know his right hand from his left? What did he ever
    suffer, I'd like to know?

    CORNELIUS. That's just what I say. I wasn't comparin you to your
    disadvantage.

    MATTHEW [implacable]. Then hwat did you mane be talkin about
    givin him lan?

    DORAN. Aisy, Mat, aisy. You're like a bear with a sore back.

    MATTHEW [trembling with rage]. An who are you, to offer to taitch
    me manners?

    FATHER DEMPSEY [admonitorily]. Now, now, now, Mat none o dhat.
    How often have I told you you're too ready to take offence where
    none is meant? You don't understand: Corny Doyle is saying just
    what you want to have said. [To Cornelius] Go on, Mr Doyle; and
    never mind him.

    MATTHEW [rising]. Well, if me lan is to be given to Patsy and his
    like, I'm goin oura dhis. I--

    DORAN [with violent impatience] Arra who's goin to give your lan
    to Patsy, yowl fool ye?

    FATHER DEMPSEY. Aisy, Barney, aisy. [Sternly, to Mat] I told you,
    Matthew Haffigan, that Corny Doyle was sayin nothin against you.
    I'm sorry your priest's word is not good enough for you. I'll go,
    sooner than stay to make you commit a sin against the Church.
    Good morning, gentlemen. [He rises. They all rise, except
    Broadbent].

    DORAN [to Mat]. There! Sarve you dam well right, you cantankerous
    oul noodle.

    MATTHEW [appalled]. Don't say dhat, Fadher Dempsey. I never had a
    thought agen you or the Holy Church. I know I'm a bit hasty when
    I think about the lan. I ax your pardn for it.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [resuming his seat with dignified reserve]. Very
    well: I'll overlook it this time. [He sits down. The others sit
    down, except Matthew. Father Dempsey, about to ask Corny to
    proceed, remembers Matthew and turns to him, giving him just a
    crumb of graciousness]. Sit down, Mat. [Matthew, crushed, sits
    down in disgrace, and is silent, his eyes shifting piteously from
    one speaker to another in an intensely mistrustful effort to
    understand them]. Go on, Mr Doyle. We can make allowances. Go on.

    CORNELIUS. Well, you see how it is, Larry. Round about here,
    we've got the land at last; and we want no more Goverment
    meddlin. We want a new class o man in parliament: one dhat knows
    dhat the farmer's the real backbone o the country, n doesn't care
    a snap of his fingers for the shoutn o the riff-raff in the
    towns, or for the foolishness of the laborers.

    DORAN. Aye; an dhat can afford to live in London and pay his own
    way until Home Rule comes, instead o wantin subscriptions and the
    like.

    FATHER DEMPSEY. Yes: that's a good point, Barney. When too much
    money goes to politics, it's the Church that has to starve for
    it. A member of parliament ought to be a help to the Church
    instead of a burden on it.

    LARRY. Here's a chance for you, Tom. What do you say?

    BROADBENT [deprecatory, but important and smiling]. Oh, I have no
    claim whatever to the seat. Besides, I'm a Saxon.

    DORAN. A hwat?

    BROADBENT. A Saxon. An Englishman.

    DORAN. An Englishman. Bedad I never heard it called dhat before.

    MATTHEW [cunningly]. If I might make so bould, Fadher, I wouldn't
    say but an English Prodestn mightn't have a more indepindent mind
    about the lan, an be less afeerd to spake out about it, dhan an
    Irish Catholic.

    CORNELIUS. But sure Larry's as good as English: aren't you,
    Larry?

    LARRY. You may put me out of your head, father, once for all.

    CORNELIUS. Arra why?

    LARRY. I have strong opinions which wouldn't suit you.

    DORAN [rallying him blatantly]. Is it still Larry the bould
    Fenian?

    LARRY. No: the bold Fenian is now an older and possibly foolisher
    man.

    CORNELIUS. Hwat does it matter to us hwat your opinions are? You
    know that your father's bought his farm, just the same as Mat
    here n Barney's mill. All we ask now is to be let alone. You've
    nothin against that, have you?

    LARRY. Certainly I have. I don't believe in letting anybody or
    anything alone.

    CORNELIUS [losing his temper]. Arra what d'ye mean, you young
    fool? Here I've got you the offer of a good seat in parliament; n
    you think yourself mighty smart to stand there and talk
    foolishness to me. Will you take it or leave it?

    LARRY. Very well: I'll take it with pleasure if you'll give it to
    me.

    CORNELIUS [subsiding sulkily]. Well, why couldn't you say so at
    once? It's a good job you've made up your mind at last.

    DORAN [suspiciously]. Stop a bit, stop a bit.

    MATTHEW [writhing between his dissatisfaction and his fear of the
    priest]. It's not because he's your son that he's to get the
    sate. Fadher Dempsey: wouldn't you think well to ask him what he
    manes about the lan?

    LARRY [coming down on Mat promptly]. I'll tell you, Mat. I always
    thought it was a stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing sort of thing to
    leave the land in the hands of the old landlords without calling
    them to a strict account for the use they made of it, and the
    condition of the people on it. I could see for myself that they
    thought of nothing but what they could get out of it to spend in
    England; and that they mortgaged and mortgaged until hardly one
    of them owned his own property or could have afforded to keep it
    up decently if he'd wanted to. But I tell you plump and plain,
    Mat, that if anybody thinks things will be any better now that
    the land is handed over to a lot of little men like you, without
    calling you to account either, they're mistaken.

    MATTHEW [sullenly]. What call have you to look down on me? I
    suppose you think you're everybody because your father was a land
    agent.

    LARRY. What call have you to look down on Patsy Farrell? I
    suppose you think you're everybody because you own a few fields.

    MATTHEW. Was Patsy Farrll ever ill used as I was ill used? tell
    me dhat.

    LARRY. He will be, if ever he gets into your power as you were in
    the power of your old landlord. Do you think, because you're poor
    and ignorant and half-crazy with toiling and moiling morning noon
    and night, that you'll be any less greedy and oppressive to them
    that have no land at all than old Nick Lestrange, who was an
    educated travelled gentleman that would not have been tempted as
    hard by a hundred pounds as you'd be by five shillings? Nick was
    too high above Patsy Farrell to be jealous of him; but you, that
    are only one little step above him, would die sooner than let him
    come up that step; and well you know it.

    MATTHEW [black with rage, in a low growl]. Lemme oura this. [He
    tries to rise; but Doran catches his coat and drags him down
    again] I'm goin, I say. [Raising his voice] Leggo me coat, Barney
    Doran.

    DORAN. Sit down, yowl omadhaun, you. [Whispering] Don't you want
    to stay an vote against him?

    FATHER DEMPSEY [holding up his finger] Mat! [Mat subsides]. Now,
    now, now! come, come! Hwats all dhis about Patsy Farrll? Hwy need
    you fall out about HIM?

    LARRY. Because it was by using Patsy's poverty to undersell
    England in the markets of the world that we drove England to ruin
    Ireland. And she'll ruin us again the moment we lift our heads
    from the dust if we trade in cheap labor; and serve us right too!
    If I get into parliament, I'll try to get an Act to prevent any
    of you from giving Patsy less than a pound a week [they all
    start, hardly able to believe their ears] or working him harder
    than you'd work a horse that cost you fifty guineas.

    DORAN. Hwat!!!

    CORNELIUS [aghast]. A pound a--God save us! the boy's mad.

    Matthew, feeling that here is something quite beyond his powers,
    turns openmouthed to the priest, as if looking for nothing less
    than the summary excommunication of Larry.

    LARRY. How is the man to marry and live a decent life on less?

    FATHER DEMPSEY. Man alive, hwere have you been living all these
    years? and hwat have you been dreaming of? Why, some o dhese
    honest men here can't make that much out o the land for
    themselves, much less give it to a laborer.

    LARRY [now thoroughly roused]. Then let them make room for those
    who can. Is Ireland never to have a chance? First she was given
    to the rich; and now that they have gorged on her flesh, her
    bones are to be flung to the poor, that can do nothing but suck
    the marrow out of her. If we can't have men of honor own the
    land, lets have men of ability. If we can't have men with
    ability, let us at least have men with capital. Anybody's better
    than Mat, who has neither honor, nor ability, nor capital, nor
    anything but mere brute labor and greed in him, Heaven help him!

    DORAN. Well, we're not all foostherin oul doddherers like Mat.
    [Pleasantly, to the subject of this description] Are we, Mat?

    LARRY. For modern industrial purposes you might just as well be,
    Barney. You're all children: the big world that I belong to has
    gone past you and left you. Anyhow, we Irishmen were never made
    to be farmers; and we'll never do any good at it. We're like the
    Jews: the Almighty gave us brains, and bid us farm them, and
    leave the clay and the worms alone.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [with gentle irony]. Oh! is it Jews you want to
    make of us? I must catechize you a bit meself, I think. The next
    thing you'll be proposing is to repeal the disestablishment of
    the so-called Irish Church.

    LARRY. Yes: why not? [Sensation].

    MATTHEW [rancorously]. He's a turncoat.

    LARRY. St Peter, the rock on which our Church was built, was
    crucified head downwards for being a turncoat.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [with a quiet authoritative dignity which checks
    Doran, who is on the point of breaking out]. That's true. You
    hold your tongue as befits your ignorance, Matthew Haffigan; and
    trust your priest to deal with this young man. Now, Larry Doyle,
    whatever the blessed St Peter was crucified for, it was not for
    being a Prodestan. Are you one?

    LARRY. No. I am a Catholic intelligent enough to see that the
    Protestants are never more dangerous to us than when they are
    free from all alliances with the State. The so-called Irish
    Church is stronger today than ever it was.

    MATTHEW. Fadher Dempsey: will you tell him dhat me mother's ant
    was shot and kilt dead in the sthreet o Rosscullen be a soljer in
    the tithe war? [Frantically] He wants to put the tithes on us
    again. He--

    LARRY [interrupting him with overbearing contempt]. Put the
    tithes on you again! Did the tithes ever come off you? Was your
    land any dearer when you paid the tithe to the parson than it was
    when you paid the same money to Nick Lestrange as rent, and he
    handed it over to the Church Sustentation Fund? Will you always
    be duped by Acts of Parliament that change nothing but the
    necktie of the man that picks your pocket? I'll tell you what I'd
    do with you, Mat Haffigan: I'd make you pay tithes to your own
    Church. I want the Catholic Church established in Ireland: that's
    what I want. Do you think that I, brought up to regard myself as
    the son of a great and holy Church, can bear to see her begging
    her bread from the ignorance and superstition of men like you? I
    would have her as high above worldly want as I would have her
    above worldly pride or ambition. Aye; and I would have Ireland
    compete with Rome itself for the chair of St Peter and the
    citadel of the Church; for Rome, in spite of all the blood of the
    martyrs, is pagan at heart to this day, while in Ireland the
    people is the Church and the Church the people.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [startled, but not at all displeased]. Whisht,
    man! You're worse than mad Pether Keegan himself.

    BROADBENT [who has listened in the greatest astonishment]. You
    amaze me, Larry. Who would have thought of your coming out like
    this! [Solemnly] But much as I appreciate your really brilliant
    eloquence, I implore you not to desert the great Liberal
    principle of Disestablishment.

    LARRY. I am not a Liberal: Heaven forbid! A disestablished Church
    is the worst tyranny a nation can groan under.

    BROADBENT [making a wry face]. DON'T be paradoxical, Larry. It
    really gives me a pain in my stomach.

    LARRY. You'll soon find out the truth of it here. Look at Father
    Dempsey! he is disestablished: he has nothing to hope or fear
    from the State; and the result is that he's the most powerful man
    in Rosscullen. The member for Rosscullen would shake in his shoes
    if Father Dempsey looked crooked at him. [Father Dempsey smiles,
    by no means averse to this acknowledgment of his authority]. Look
    at yourself! you would defy the established Archbishop of
    Canterbury ten times a day; but catch you daring to say a word
    that would shock a Nonconformist! not you. The Conservative party
    today is the only one that's not priestridden--excuse the
    expression, Father [Father Dempsey nods tolerantly]--cause it's
    the only one that has established its Church and can prevent a
    clergyman becoming a bishop if he's not a Statesman as well as a
    Churchman.

    He stops. They stare at him dumbfounded, and leave it to the
    priest to answer him.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [judicially]. Young man: you'll not be the member
    for Rosscullen; but there's more in your head than the comb will
    take out.

    LARRY. I'm sorry to disappoint you, father; but I told you it
    would be no use. And now I think the candidate had better retire
    and leave you to discuss his successor. [He takes a newspaper
    from the table and goes away through the shrubbery amid dead
    silence, all turning to watch him until he passes out of sight
    round the corner of the house].

    DORAN [dazed]. Hwat sort of a fella is he at all at all?

    FATHER DEMPSEY. He's a clever lad: there's the making of a man in
    him yet.

    MATTHEW [in consternation]. D'ye mane to say dhat yll put him
    into parliament to bring back Nick Lesthrange on me, and to put
    tithes on me, and to rob me for the like o Patsy Farrll, because
    he's Corny Doyle's only son?

    DORAN [brutally]. Arra hould your whisht: who's goin to send him
    into parliament? Maybe you'd like us to send you dhere to thrate
    them to a little o your anxiety about dhat dirty little podato
    patch o yours.

    MATTHEW [plaintively]. Am I to be towld dhis afther all me
    sufferins?

    DORAN. Och, I'm tired o your sufferins. We've been hearin nothin
    else ever since we was childher but sufferins. Haven it wasn't
    yours it was somebody else's; and haven it was nobody else's it
    was ould Irelan's. How the divil are we to live on wan anodher's
    sufferins?

    FATHER DEMPSEY. That's a thrue word, Barney Doarn; only your
    tongue's a little too familiar wi dhe devil. [To Mat] If you'd
    think a little more o the sufferins of the blessed saints, Mat,
    an a little less o your own, you'd find the way shorter from your
    farm to heaven. [Mat is about to reply] Dhere now! Dhat's enough!
    we know you mean well; an I'm not angry with you.

    BROADBENT. Surely, Mr Haffigan, you can see the simple
    explanation of all this. My friend Larry Doyle is a most
    brilliant speaker; but he's a Tory: an ingrained oldfashioned
    Tory.

    CORNELIUS. N how d'ye make dhat out, if I might ask you, Mr
    Broadbent?

    BROADBENT [collecting himself for a political deliverance]. Well,
    you know, Mr Doyle, there's a strong dash of Toryism in the Irish
    character. Larry himself says that the great Duke of Wellington
    was the most typical Irishman that ever lived. Of course that's
    an absurd paradox; but still there's a great deal of truth in it.
    Now I am a Liberal. You know the great principles of the Liberal
    party. Peace--

    FATHER DEMPSEY [piously]. Hear! hear!

    BROADBENT [encouraged]. Thank you. Retrenchment--[he waits for
    further applause].

    MATTHEW [timidly]. What might rethrenchment mane now?

    BROADBENT. It means an immense reduction in the burden of the
    rates and taxes.

    MATTHEW [respectfully approving]. Dhats right. Dhats right, sir.

    BROADBENT [perfunctorily]. And, of course, Reform.

    CORNELIUS }
    FATHER DEMPSEY} [conventionally]. Of course.
    DORAN }

    MATTHEW [still suspicious]. Hwat does Reform mane, sir? Does it
    mane altherin annythin dhats as it is now?

    BROADBENT [impressively]. It means, Mr Haffigan, maintaining
    those reforms which have already been conferred on humanity by
    the Liberal Party, and trusting for future developments to the
    free activity of a free people on the basis of those reforms.

    DORAN. Dhat's right. No more meddlin. We're all right now: all we
    want is to be let alone.

    CORNELIUS. Hwat about Home Rule?

    BROADBENT [rising so as to address them more imposingly]. I
    really cannot tell you what I feel about Home Rule without using
    the language of hyperbole.

    DORAN. Savin Fadher Dempsey's presence, eh?

    BROADBENT [not understanding him] Quite so--er--oh yes. All I can
    say is that as an Englishman I blush for the Union. It is the
    blackest stain on our national history. I look forward to the
    time-and it cannot be far distant, gentlemen, because Humanity is
    looking forward to it too, and insisting on it with no uncertain
    voice--I look forward to the time when an Irish legislature shall
    arise once more on the emerald pasture of College Green, and the
    Union Jack--that detestable symbol of a decadent Imperialism--be
    replaced by a flag as green as the island over which it waves--a
    flag on which we shall ask for England only a modest quartering
    in memory of our great party and of the immortal name of our
    grand old leader.

    DORAN [enthusiastically]. Dhat's the style, begob! [He smites his
    knee, and winks at Mat].

    MATTHEW. More power to you, Sir!

    BROADBENT. I shall leave you now, gentlemen, to your
    deliberations. I should like to have enlarged on the services
    rendered by the Liberal Party to the religious faith of the great
    majority of the people of Ireland; but I shall content myself
    with saying that in my opinion you should choose no
    representative
    who--no matter what his personal creed may be--is not an ardent
    supporter of freedom of conscience, and is not prepared to prove
    it by contributions, as lavish as his means will allow, to the
    great and beneficent work which you, Father Dempsey [Father
    Dempsey bows], are doing for the people of Rosscullen. Nor should
    the lighter, but still most important question of the sports of
    the people be forgotten. The local cricket club--

    CORNELIUS. The hwat!

    DORAN. Nobody plays bats ball here, if dhat's what you mean.

    BROADBENT. Well, let us say quoits. I saw two men, I think, last
    night--but after all, these are questions of detail. The main
    thing is that your candidate, whoever he may be, shall be a man
    of some means, able to help the locality instead of burdening it.
    And if he were a countryman of my own, the moral effect on the
    House of Commons would be immense! tremendous! Pardon my saying
    these few words: nobody feels their impertinence more than I do.
    Good morning, gentlemen.

    He turns impressively to the gate, and trots away, congratulating
    himself,, with a little twist of his head and cock of his eye, on
    having done a good stroke of political business.

    HAFFIGAN [awestruck]. Good morning, sir.

    THE REST. Good morning. [They watch him vacantly until he is out
    of earshot].

    CORNELIUS. Hwat d'ye think, Father Dempsey?

    FATHER DEMPSEY [indulgently] Well, he hasn't much sense, God help
    him; but for the matter o that, neither has our present member.

    DORAN. Arra musha he's good enough for parliament what is there
    to do there but gas a bit, an chivy the Goverment, an vote wi dh
    Irish party?

    CORNELIUS [ruminatively]. He's the queerest Englishman I ever
    met. When he opened the paper dhis mornin the first thing he saw
    was that an English expedition had been bet in a battle in Inja
    somewhere; an he was as pleased as Punch! Larry told him that if
    he'd been alive when the news o Waterloo came, he'd a died o
    grief over it. Bedad I don't think he's quite right in his head.

    DORAN. Divil a matther if he has plenty o money. He'll do for us
    right enough.

    MATTHEW [deeply impressed by Broadbent, and unable to understand
    their levity concerning him]. Did you mind what he said about
    rethrenchment? That was very good, I thought.

    FATHER DEMPSEY. You might find out from Larry, Corny, what his
    means are. God forgive us all! it's poor work spoiling the
    Egyptians, though we have good warrant for it; so I'd like to
    know how much spoil there is before I commit meself. [He rises.
    They all rise respectfully].

    CORNELIUS [ruefully]. I'd set me mind on Larry himself for the
    seat; but I suppose it can't be helped.

    FATHER DEMPSEY [consoling him]. Well, the boy's young yet; an he
    has a head on him. Goodbye, all. [He goes out through the gate].

    DORAN. I must be goin, too. [He directs Cornelius's attention to
    what is passing in the road]. Look at me bould Englishman shakin
    hans wid Fadher Dempsey for all the world like a candidate on
    election day. And look at Fadher Dempsey givin him a squeeze an a
    wink as much as to say It's all right, me boy. You watch him
    shakin hans with me too: he's waitn for me. I'll tell him he's as
    good as elected. [He goes, chuckling mischievously].

    CORNELIUS. Come in with me, Mat. I think I'll sell you the pig
    after all. Come in an wet the bargain.

    MATTHEW [instantly dropping into the old whine of the tenant].
    I'm afeerd I can't afford the price, sir. [He follows Cornelius
    into the house].

    Larry, newspaper still in hand, comes back through the shrubbery.
    Broadbent returns through the gate.

    LARRY. Well? What has happened.

    BROADBENT [hugely self-satisfied]. I think I've done the trick
    this time. I just gave them a bit of straight talk; and it went
    home. They were greatly impressed: everyone of those men believes
    in me and will vote for me when the question of selecting a
    candidate comes up. After all, whatever you say, Larry, they like
    an Englishman. They feel they can trust him, I suppose.

    LARRY. Oh ! they've transferred the honor to you, have they?

    BROADBENT [complacently]. Well, it was a pretty obvious move, I
    should think. You know, these fellows have plenty of shrewdness
    in spite of their Irish oddity. [Hodson comes from the house.
    Larry sits in Doran's chair and reads]. Oh, by the way, Hodson--

    HODSON [coming between Broadbent and Larry]. Yes, sir?

    BROADBENT. I want you to be rather particular as to how you treat
    the people here.

    HODSON. I haven't treated any of em yet, sir. If I was to accept
    all the treats they offer me I shouldn't be able to stand at this
    present moment, sir.

    BROADBENT. Oh well, don't be too stand-offish, you know, Hodson.
    I should like you to be popular. If it costs anything I'll make
    it up to you. It doesn't matter if you get a bit upset at first:
    they'll like you all the better for it.

    HODSON. I'm sure you're very kind, sir; but it don't seem to
    matter to me whether they like me or not. I'm not going to stand
    for parliament here, sir.

    BROADBENT. Well, I am. Now do you understand?

    HODSON [waking up at once]. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure.
    I understand, sir.

    CORNELIUS [appearing at the house door with Mat]. Patsy'll drive
    the pig over this evenin, Mat. Goodbye. [He goes back into the
    house. Mat makes for the gate. Broadbent stops him. Hodson,
    pained by the derelict basket, picks it up and carries it away
    behind the house].

    BROADBENT [beaming candidatorially]. I must thank you very
    particularly, Mr Haffigan, for your support this morning. I value
    it because I know that the real heart of a nation is the class
    you represent, the yeomanry.

    MATTHEW [aghast] The yeomanry!!!

    LARRY [looking up from his paper]. Take care, Tom! In Rosscullen
    a yeoman means a sort of Orange Bashi-Bazouk. In England, Mat,
    they call a freehold farmer a yeoman.

    MATTHEW [huffily]. I don't need to be insthructed be you, Larry
    Doyle. Some people think no one knows anythin but dhemselves. [To
    Broadbent, deferentially] Of course I know a gentleman like you
    would not compare me to the yeomanry. Me own granfather was
    flogged in the sthreets of Athenmullet be them when they put a
    gun in the thatch of his house an then went and found it there,
    bad cess to them!

    BROADBENT [with sympathetic interest]. Then you are not the first
    martyr of your family, Mr Haffigan?

    MATTHEW. They turned me out o the farm I made out of the stones o
    Little Rosscullen hill wid me own hans.

    BROADBENT. I have heard about it; and my blood still boils at the
    thought. [Calling] Hodson--

    HODSON [behind the corner of the house] Yes, sir. [He hurries
    forward].

    BROADBENT. Hodson: this gentleman's sufferings should make every
    Englishman think. It is want of thought rather than want of heart
    that allows such iniquities to disgrace society.

    HODSON [prosaically]. Yes sir.

    MATTHEW. Well, I'll be goin. Good mornin to you kindly, sir.

    BROADBENT. You have some distance to go, Mr Haffigan: will you
    allow me to drive you home?

    MATTHEW. Oh sure it'd be throublin your honor.

    BROADBENT. I insist: it will give me the greatest pleasure, I
    assure you. My car is in the stable: I can get it round in five
    minutes.

    MATTHEW. Well, sir, if you wouldn't mind, we could bring the pig
    I've just bought from Corny.

    BROADBENT [with enthusiasm]. Certainly, Mr Haffigan: it will be
    quite delightful to drive with a pig in the car: I shall feel
    quite like an Irishman. Hodson: stay with Mr Haffigan; and give
    him a hand with the pig if necessary. Come, Larry; and help me.
    [He rushes away through the shrubbery].

    LARRY [throwing the paper ill-humoredly on the chair]. Look here,
    Tom! here, I say! confound it! [he runs after him].

    MATTHEW [glowering disdainfully at Hodson, and sitting down on
    Cornelius's chair as an act of social self-assertion] N are you
    the valley?

    HODSON. The valley? Oh, I follow you: yes: I'm Mr Broadbent's
    valet.

    MATTHEW. Ye have an aisy time of it: you look purty sleek. [With
    suppressed ferocity] Look at me! Do I look sleek?

    HODSON [sadly]. I wish I ad your ealth: you look as hard as
    nails. I suffer from an excess of uric acid.

    MATTHEW. Musha what sort o disease is zhouragassid? Didjever
    suffer from injustice and starvation? Dhat's the Irish disease.
    It's aisy for you to talk o sufferin, an you livin on the fat o
    the land wid money wrung from us.

    HODSON [Coolly]. Wots wrong with you, old chap? Has ennybody been
    doin ennything to you?

    MATTHEW. Anythin timme! Didn't your English masther say that the
    blood biled in him to hear the way they put a rint on me for the
    farm I made wid me own hans, and turned me out of it to give it
    to Billy Byrne?

    HODSON. Ow, Tom Broadbent's blood boils pretty easy over
    ennything that appens out of his own country. Don't you be taken
    in by my ole man, Paddy.

    MATTHEW [indignantly]. Paddy yourself! How dar you call me Paddy?

    HODSON [unmoved]. You just keep your hair on and listen to me.
    You Irish people are too well off: that's what's the matter with
    you. [With sudden passion] You talk of your rotten little farm
    because you made it by chuckin a few stownes dahn a hill! Well,
    wot price my grenfawther, I should like to know, that fitted up a
    fuss clawss shop and built up a fuss clawss drapery business in
    London by sixty years work, and then was chucked aht of it on is
    ed at the end of is lease withaht a penny for his goodwill. You
    talk of evictions! you that cawn't be moved until you've
    run up eighteen months rent. I once ran up four weeks in Lambeth
    when I was aht of a job in winter. They took the door off its
    inges and the winder aht of its sashes on me, and gave my wife
    pnoomownia. I'm a widower now. [Between his teeth] Gawd! when I
    think of the things we Englishmen av to put up with, and hear you
    Irish hahlin abaht your silly little grievances, and see the way
    you makes it worse for us by the rotten wages you'll come over
    and take and the rotten places you'll sleep in, I jast feel that
    I could take the oul bloomin British awland and make you a
    present of it, jast to let you find out wot real ardship's like.

    MATTHEW [starting up, more in scandalized incredulity than in
    anger]. D'ye have the face to set up England agen Ireland for
    injustices an wrongs an disthress an sufferin?

    HODSON [with intense disgust and contempt, but with Cockney
    coolness]. Ow, chuck it, Paddy. Cheese it. You danno wot ardship
    is over ere: all you know is ah to ahl abaht it. You take the
    biscuit at that, you do. I'm a Owm Ruler, I am. Do you know why?

    MATTHEW [equally contemptuous]. D'ye know, yourself?

    HODSON. Yes I do. It's because I want a little attention paid to
    my own country; and thet'll never be as long as your chaps are
    ollerin at Wesminister as if nowbody mettered but your own
    bloomin selves. Send em back to hell or C'naught, as good oul
    English Cromwell said. I'm jast sick of Ireland. Let it gow. Cut
    the cable. Make it a present to Germany to keep the oul Kyzer
    busy for a while; and give poor owld England a chawnce: thets wot
    I say.

    MATTHEW [full of scorn for a man so ignorant as to be unable to
    pronounce the word Connaught, which practically rhymes with
    bonnet in Ireland, though in Hodson's dialect it rhymes with
    untaught]. Take care we don't cut the cable ourselves some day,
    bad scran to you! An tell me dhis: have yanny Coercion Acs in
    England? Have yanny removables? Have you Dublin Castle to
    suppress every newspaper dhat takes the part o your own counthry?

    HODSON. We can beyave ahrselves withaht sich things.

    MATTHEW. Bedad you're right. It'd only be waste o time to muzzle
    a sheep. Here! where's me pig? God forgimme for talkin to a poor
    ignorant craycher like you.

    HODSON [grinning with good-humored malice, too convinced of his
    own superiority to feel his withers wrung]. Your pig'll ave a
    rare doin in that car, Paddy. Forty miles an ahr dahn that rocky
    lane will strike it pretty pink, you bet.

    MATTHEW [scornfully]. Hwy can't you tell a raisonable lie when
    you're about it? What horse can go forty mile an hour?

    HODSON. Orse! Wy, you silly oul rotten it's not a orse it's a
    mowtor. Do you suppose Tom Broadbent would gow off himself to
    arness a orse?

    MATTHEW [in consternation]. Holy Moses! Don't tell me it's the
    ingine he wants to take me on.

    HODSON. Wot else?

    MATTHEW. Your sowl to Morris Kelly! why didn't you tell me that
    before? The divil an ingine he'll get me on this day. [His ear
    catches an approaching teuf-teuf] Oh murdher! it's comin afther
    me: I hear the puff puff of it. [He runs away through the gate,
    much to Hodson's amusement. The noise of the motor ceases; and
    Hodson, anticipating Broadbent's return, throws off the
    politician and recomposes himself as a valet. Broadbent and Larry
    come through the shrubbery. Hodson moves aside to the gate].

    BROADBENT. Where is Mr Haffigan? Has he gone for the pig?

    HODSON. Bolted, sir! Afraid of the motor, sir.

    BROADBENT [much disappointed]. Oh, that's very tiresome. Did he
    leave any message?

    HODSON. He was in too great a hurry, sir. Started to run home,
    sir, and left his pig behind him.

    BROADBENT [eagerly]. Left the pig! Then it's all right. The pig's
    the thing: the pig will win over every Irish heart to me. We'll
    take the pig home to Haffigan's farm in the motor: it will have a
    tremendous effect. Hodson!

    HODSON. Yes sir?

    BROADBENT. Do you think you could collect a crowd to see the
    motor?

    HODSON. Well, I'll try, sir.

    BROADBENT. Thank you, Hodson: do.

    Hodson goes out through the gate.

    LARRY [desperately]. Once more, Tom, will you listen to me?

    BROADBENT. Rubbish! I tell you it will be all right.

    LARRY. Only this morning you confessed how surprised you were to
    find that the people here showed no sense of humor.

    BROADBENT [suddenly very solemn]. Yes: their sense of humor is in
    abeyance: I noticed it the moment we landed. Think of that in a
    country where every man is a born humorist! Think of what it
    means! [Impressively] Larry we are in the presence of a great
    national grief.

    LARRY. What's to grieve them?

    BROADBENT. I divined it, Larry: I saw it in their faces. Ireland
    has never smiled since her hopes were buried in the grave of
    Gladstone.

    LARRY. Oh, what's the use of talking to such a man? Now look
    here, Tom. Be serious for a moment if you can.

    BROADBENT [stupent] Serious! I!!!

    LARRY. Yes, you. You say the Irish sense of humor is in abeyance.
    Well, if you drive through Rosscullen in a motor car with
    Haffigan's pig, it won't stay in abeyance. Now I warn you.

    BROADBENT [breezily]. Why, so much the better! I shall enjoy the
    joke myself more than any of them. [Shouting] Hallo, Patsy
    Farrell, where are you?

    PATSY [appearing in the shrubbery]. Here I am, your honor.

    BROADBENT. Go and catch the pig and put it into the car--we're
    going to take it to Mr Haffigan's. [He gives Larry a slap on the
    shoulders that sends him staggering off through the gate, and
    follows him buoyantly, exclaiming] Come on, you old croaker! I'll
    show you how to win an Irish seat.

    PATSY [meditatively]. Bedad, if dhat pig gets a howlt o the
    handle o the machine-- [He shakes his head ominously and drifts
    away to the pigsty].
    Next Chapter
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