in Lambeth when I was aht of a job in winter.  They took the door off its inges and the winder aht of its sashes on me, and gave my wife pnoomownia.  I’m a widower now. [Between his teeth] Gawd! when I think of the things we Englishmen av to put up with, and hear you Irish hahlin abaht your silly little grievances, and see the way you makes it worse for us by the rotten wages you’ll come over and take and the rotten places you’ll sleep in, I jast feel that I could take the oul bloomin British awland and make you a present of it, jast to let you find out wot real ardship’s like.

Matthew [starting up, more in scandalized incredulity than in anger].  D’ye have the face to set up England agen Ireland for injustices an wrongs an disthress an sufferin?

Hodson [with intense disgust and contempt, but with Cockney coolness].  Ow, chuck it, Paddy.  Cheese it.  You danno wot ardship is over ere:  all you know is ah to ahl abaht it.  You take the biscuit at that, you do.  I’m a Owm Ruler, I am.  Do you know why?

Matthew [equally contemptuous].  D’ye know, yourself?

Hodson.  Yes I do.  It’s because I want a little attention paid to my own country; and thet’ll never be as long as your chaps are ollerin at Wesminister as if nowbody mettered but your own bloomin selves.  Send em back to hell or C’naught, as good oul English Cromwell said.  I’m jast sick of Ireland.  Let it gow.  Cut the cable.  Make it a present to Germany to keep the oul Kyzer busy for a while; and give poor owld England a chawnce:  thets wot I say.

Matthew [full of scorn for a man so ignorant as to be unable to pronounce the word Connaught, which practically rhymes with bonnet in Ireland, though in Hodson’s dialect it rhymes with untaught].  Take care we don’t cut the cable ourselves some day, bad scran to you!  An tell me dhis:  have yanny Coercion Acs in England?  Have yanny removables?  Have you Dublin Castle to suppress every newspaper dhat takes the part o your own counthry?

Hodson.  We can beyave ahrselves withaht sich things.

Matthew.  Bedad you’re right.  It’d only be waste o time to muzzle a sheep.  Here! where’s me pig?  God forgimme for talkin to a poor ignorant craycher like you.

Hodson [grinning with good-humored malice, too convinced of his own superiority to feel his withers wrung].  Your pig’ll ave a rare doin in that car, Paddy.  Forty miles an ahr dahn that rocky lane will strike it pretty pink, you bet.

Matthew [scornfully].  Hwy can’t you tell a raisonable lie when you’re about it?  What horse can go forty mile an hour?

Hodson.  Orse!  Wy, you silly oul rotten it’s not a orse it’s a mowtor.  Do you suppose Tom Broadbent would gow off himself to arness a orse?

Matthew [in consternation].  Holy Moses!  Don’t tell me it’s the ingine he wants to take me on.

Hodson.  Wot else?