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.