John Bulls Other Island | Page 6

More power to your elbow! an may your shadda never be less!
for you're the broth of a boy intirely. An how can I help you?
Command me to the last dhrop o me blood.
BROADBENT. Have you ever heard of Garden City?
TIM [doubtfully]. D'ye mane Heavn?
BROADBENT. Heaven! No: it's near Hitchin. If you can spare half an
hour I'll go into it with you.
TIM. I tell you hwat. Gimme a prospectus. Lemme take it home and
reflect on it.
BROADBENT. You're quite right: I will. [He gives him a copy of Mr
Ebenezer Howard's book, and several pamphlets]. You understand that
the map of the city--the circular construction--is only a suggestion.

TIM. I'll make a careful note o that [looking dazedly at the map].
BROADBENT. What I say is, why not start a Garden City in Ireland?
TIM [with enthusiasm]. That's just what was on the tip o me tongue to
ask you. Why not? [Defiantly] Tell me why not.
BROADBENT. There are difficulties. I shall overcome them; but there
are difficulties. When I first arrive in Ireland I shall be hated as an
Englishman. As a Protestant, I shall be denounced from every altar. My
life may be in danger. Well, I am prepared to face that.
TIM. Never fear, sir. We know how to respict a brave innimy.
BROADBENT. What I really dread is misunderstanding. I think you
could help me to avoid that. When I heard you speak the other evening
in Bermondsey at the meeting of the National League, I saw at once
that you were--You won't mind my speaking frankly?
TIM. Tell me all me faults as man to man. I can stand anything but
flatthery.
BROADBENT. May I put it in this way?--that I saw at once that you
were a thorough Irishman, with all the faults and all, the qualities of
your race: rash and improvident but brave and goodnatured; not likely
to succeed in business on your own account perhaps, but eloquent,
humorous, a lover of freedom, and a true follower of that great
Englishman Gladstone.
TIM. Spare me blushes. I mustn't sit here to be praised to me face. But I
confess to the goodnature: it's an Irish wakeness. I'd share me last
shillin with a friend.
BROADBENT. I feel sure you would, Mr Haffigan.
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? A hundherd 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