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
suppresse