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 with Broadbent’s eupeptic jollity.