ROADBENT [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].

ACT IV

The parlor in Cornelius Doyle's house. It communicates with the
garden by a half glazed door. The fireplace is at the other side
of the room, opposite the door and windows, the ar