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 Icame 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?Ithought 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!
