TIM [impulsively].Damn it!call me Tim.A man that talks about Ireland as you do may call me anything.Gimme a howlt o that whisky bottle [he replenishes].
BROADBENT [smiling indulgently].Well,Tim,will you come with me and help to break the ice between me and your warmhearted,impulsive countrymen?
TIM.Will I come to Madagascar or Cochin China wid you?Bedad I'll come to the North Pole wid you if yll pay me fare;for the divil a shillin I have to buy a third class ticket.
BROADBENT.I've not forgotten that,Tim.We must put that little matter on a solid English footing,though the rest can be as Irish as you please.You must come as my--my--well,I hardly know what to call it.If we call you my agent,they'll shoot you.If we call you a bailiff,they'll duck you in the horsepond.I have a secretary already;and--TIM.Then we'll call him the Home Secretary and me the Irish Secretary.Eh?
BROADBENT [laughing industriously].Capital.Your Irish wit has settled the first difficulty.Now about your salary--TIM.A salary,is it?Sure I'd do it for nothin,only me cloes ud disgrace you;and I'd be dhriven to borra money from your friends:a thing that's agin me nacher.But I won't take a penny more than a hundherd a year.[He looks with restless cunning at Broadbent,trying to guess how far he may go].
BROADBENT.If that will satisfy you--
TIM [more than reassured].Why shouldn't it satisfy me?Ahundherd a year is twelve-pound a month,isn't it?
BROADBENT.No.Eight pound six and eightpence.
TIM.Oh murdher!An I'll have to sind five timme poor oul mother in Ireland.But no matther:I said a hundherd;and what I said I'll stick to,if I have to starve for it.
BROADBENT [with business caution].Well,let us say twelve pounds for the first month.Afterwards,we shall see how we get on.
TIM.You're a gentleman,sir.Whin me mother turns up her toes,you shall take the five pounds off;for your expinses must be kep down wid a sthrong hand;an--[He is interrupted by the arrival of Broadbent's partner.]
Mr Laurence Doyle is a man of 36,with cold grey eyes,strained nose,fine fastidious lips,critical brown,clever head,rather refined and goodlooking on the whole,but with a suggestion of thinskinedness and dissatisfaction that contrasts strongly with Broadbent's eupeptic jollity.
He comes in as a man at home there,but on seeing the stranger shrinks at once,and is about to withdraw when Broadbent reassures him.He then comes forward to the table,between the two others.
DOYLE [retreating].You're engaged.
BROADBENT.Not at all,not at all.Come in.[To Tim]This gentleman is a friend who lives with me here:my partner,Mr Doyle.[To Doyle]This is a new Irish friend of mine,Mr Tim Haffigan.
TIM [rising with effusion].Sure it's meself that's proud to meet any friend o Misther Broadbent's.The top o the mornin to you,sir!Me heart goes out teeye both.It's not often I meet two such splendid speciments iv the Anglo-Saxon race.
BROADBENT [chuckling]Wrong for once,Tim.My friend Mr Doyle is a countryman of yours.
Tim is noticeably dashed by this announcement.He draws in his horns at once,and scowls suspiciously at Doyle under a vanishing mark of goodfellowship:cringing a little,too,in mere nerveless fear of him.
DOYLE [with cool disgust].Good evening.[He retires to the fireplace,and says to Broadbent in a tone which conveys the strongest possible hint to Haffigan that he is unwelcome]Will you soon be disengaged?
TIM [his brogue decaying into a common would-be genteel accent with an unexpected strain of Glasgow in it].I must be going.
Ivnmportnt engeegement in the west end.
BROADBENT [rising].It's settled,then,that you come with me.
TIM.Ish'll be verra pleased to accompany ye,sir.
BROADBENT.But how soon?Can you start tonight--from Paddington?
We go by Milford Haven.
TIM [hesitating].Well--I'm afreed--I [Doyle goes abruptly into the bedroom,slamming the door and shattering the last remnant of Tim's nerve.The poor wretch saves himself from bursting into tears by plunging again into his role of daredevil Irishman.He rushes to Broadbent;plucks at his sleeve with trembling fingers;and pours forth his entreaty with all the brogue be can muster,subduing his voice lest Doyle should hear and return].Misther Broadbent:don't humiliate me before a fella counthryman.Look here:me cloes is up the spout.Gimme a fypounnote--I'll pay ya nex choosda whin me ship comes home--or you can stop it out o me month's sallery.I'll be on the platform at Paddnton punctial an ready.Gimme it quick,before he comes back.You won't mind me axin,will ye?
BROADBENT.Not at all.I was about to offer you an advance for travelling expenses.[He gives him a bank note].
TIM [pocketing it].Thank you.I'll be there half an hour before the thrain starts.[Larry is heard at the bedroom door,returning].Whisht:he's comin back.Goodbye an God bless ye.[He hurries out almost crying,the 5pound note and all the drink it means to him being too much for his empty stomach and overstrained nerves].
DOYLE [returning].Where the devil did you pick up that seedy swindler?What was he doing here?[He goes up to the table where the plans are,and makes a note on one of them,referring to his pocket book as be does so].
BROADBENT.There you go!Why are you so down on every Irishman you meet,especially if he's a bit shabby?poor devil!Surely a fellow-countryman may pass you the top of the morning without offence,even if his coat is a bit shiny at the seams.
DOYLE [contemptuously].The top of the morning!Did he call you the broth of a boy?[He comes to the writing table].
BROADBENT [triumphantly].Yes.
DOYLE.And wished you more power to your elbow?
BROADBENT.He did.
DOYLE.And that your shadow might never be less?
BROADBENT.Certainly.
DOYLE [taking up the depleted whisky bottle and shaking his head at it].And he got about half a pint of whisky out of you.
BROADBENT.It did him no harm.He never turned a hair.
DOYLE.How much money did he borrow?
