Matthew [breaking out with surly bitterness].  We’ve had enough of his foolish talk agen lanlords.  Hwat call has he to talk about the lan, that never was outside of a city office in his life?

Cornelius.  We’re tired of him.  He doesn’t know hwere to stop.  Every man can’t own land; and some men must own it to employ them.  It was all very well when solid men like Doran and me and Mat were kep from ownin land.  But hwat man in his senses ever wanted to give land to Patsy Farrll an dhe like o him?

Broadbent.  But surely Irish landlordism was accountable for what
Mr Haffigan suffered.

Matthew.  Never mind hwat I suffered.  I know what I suffered adhout you tellin me.  But did I ever ask for more dhan the farm I made wid me own hans:  tell me that, Corny Doyle, and you that knows.  Was I fit for the responsibility or was I not? [Snarling angrily at Cornelius] Am I to be compared to Patsy Farrll, that doesn’t harly know his right hand from his left?  What did he ever suffer, I’d like to know?

Cornelius.  That’s just what I say.  I wasn’t comparin you to your disadvantage.

Matthew [implacable].  Then hwat did you mane be talkin about givin him lan?

Doran.  Aisy, Mat, aisy.  You’re like a bear with a sore back.

Matthew [trembling with rage].  An who are you, to offer to taitch me manners?

Father Dempsey [admonitorily].  Now, now, now, Mat none o dhat.  How often have I told you you’re too ready to take offence where none is meant?  You don’t understand:  Corny Doyle is saying just what you want to have said. [To Cornelius] Go on, Mr Doyle; and never mind him.

Matthew [rising].  Well, if me lan is to be given to Patsy and his like, I’m goin oura dhis.  I—­

Doran [with violent impatience] Arra who’s goin to give your lan to Patsy, yowl fool ye?

Father Dempsey.  Aisy, Barney, aisy. [Sternly, to Mat] I told you, Matthew Haffigan, that Corny Doyle was sayin nothin against you.  I’m sorry your priest’s word is not good enough for you.  I’ll go, sooner than stay to make you commit a sin against the Church.  Good morning, gentlemen. [He rises.  They all rise, except Broadbent].

Doran [to Mat].  There!  Sarve you dam well right, you cantankerous oul noodle.

Matthew [appalled].  Don’t say dhat, Fadher Dempsey.  I never had a thought agen you or the Holy Church.  I know I’m a bit hasty when I think about the lan.  I ax your pardn for it.

Father Dempsey [resuming his seat with dignified reserve].  Very well:  I’ll overlook it this time. [He sits down.  The others sit down, except Matthew.  Father Dempsey, about to ask Corny to proceed, remembers Matthew and turns to him, giving him just a crumb of graciousness].  Sit down, Mat. [Matthew, crushed, sits down in disgrace, and is silent, his eyes shifting piteously from one speaker to another in an intensely mistrustful effort to understand them].  Go on, Mr Doyle.  We can make allowances.  Go on.