Hazel: What’s that?  I never was one for betting on races or gaining prizes for riddles.

Mineog: It is strange now I have no recollection of putting that down.  It is I myself in the days gone by would put an odd shilling on a horse.

Hazel: These typewriters would bother the world.  Wait now—­let me throw an eye on those papers you have in your hand.

Mineog: Not at all.  I would sooner be giving it out to you myself.

Hazel: Of course it is very pleasing to be listening to so nice an account—­but lend it a minute.

   (Puts out hand.)

Mineog: Bring me now a bottle of wine, John—­you know the sort—­till I’ll drink to Mr. Hazel’s good health.

John: I will, sir.

Hazel: No, but bring it at my own expense till I will drink to Mr. Mineog.  Just give me a hold of that paper for one minute only.

Mineog: Keep patience now.  I will go through it with no delay.

Hazel: (Making a snap.) Just for one minute.

Mineog: (Clapping his hand on it.) What a hurry you are in!  Stop now till I’ll find the place.  “Very rarely indeed has been met with so fair and so neighbourly a man.”

Hazel: Give me a look at it.

Mineog: What is it ails you?  You are uneasy about something.  What is it you are hiding from me?

Hazel: What would I have to hide but that the papers got mixed in some way, and you have in your hand what I wrote about yourself, and not what you wrote about myself?

Mineog: What way did they get into the wrong pocket now?

Hazel:  (Putting MS. in his pocket.) Give me back my own and I will give you back your own.

Mineog: I don’t know.  You are putting it in my mind there might be something underhand.  I would like to make sure what did you say about me in the heel. (Turns over.) “He was honest and widely respected.” Was honest—­are you saying me to be a rogue at this time?

Hazel: That’s not fair dealing to be searching through it against my will.

Mineog: “He was trusted through the whole townland.” Was trusted—­is it that you are making me out to be a thief?

Hazel: Well, follow your own road and take your own way.

Mineog: “——­Mr. Mineog leaves no family to lament his loss, but along with the Tribune, which he fostered with the care of a father, we offer up prayers for the repose of his soul.” (Stands up.) It is a notice of my death you are after writing!

Hazel: You should understand that.

Mineog: An obituary notice!  Of myself!  Is it that you expect me to quit the living world between this and Thursday?

Hazel: I had no thought of the kind.

Mineog: I’m not stretched yet!  What call have you to go offer prayers for me?