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A play by Seumas O'Brien

Magnanimity: A Comedy In One Act

Title:     Magnanimity: A Comedy In One Act
Author: Seumas O'Brien [More Titles by O'Brien]


WILLIAM DRISCOLL A public-house keeper



Scene: Back parlor of a country public house. The
proprietor, William Driscoll, a man of about fifty with a
very dour expression, sings as he sweeps the floor:

"Oh, the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When the dream of life from morn till night
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream."

[Logan, a stranger, enters.

Good mornin'.

Good mornin' and good luck. What can I do for you?

I'll have a glass of the best whiskey.

All right, my good man. You shall get it.


(takes up the morning paper, sits on the table, and speaks aloud)

Be the pipers that played the dead march for Moses,
but I'm twice as big a fool as I thought I was.
And knowledge of that sort is cold comfort for any
man. What's this I see here? "Daring burglary in
the town of Castlemorgan. During the early hours
of the morning, the house of Michael Cassily was
broken into, and five pound notes, a gentleman's
watch and a pair of silver candlesticks were stolen.
So far, no arrests have been made, but the police
have every hope of bringing those who committed
the offence to justice, because Mr. Cassily states
that he saw two men leaving by the back entrance,
and found a piece of a coat-tail hanging from a nail
on the porch."

[He lifts up his coat, and discovers a piece missing from
the tail, and is about to take it off for a closer inspection
when the publican enters with the whiskey.

(as he places the whiskey upon the table)

This is your drink, stranger, and believe me, you
couldn't get a better drop of whiskey in the whole
United Kingdom, not even if you went to the King's
palace itself for it.

'Tis good, you say.

None better, and wonderful stuff to put heart into a man.

(drinks it off)

'Tis the good flavor it has surely.

(Pauses awhile)

I think I'll have another, for 'tis plenty of heart I'll
be wantin' before the day goes to its close.

'Tis easy to feel plucky in the mornin', but 'tis a
brave man who can feel happy at the heel of day,
especially if he has an uneasy conscience and an
empty stomach.

Hunger plays the devil with us all. A man with an
empty stomach, an empty purse, and an empty house,
except for a scoldin' wife, can never be happy.

That's so, but if that's all you have to contend with,
you haven't much to worry about. Sure I thought
by your looks and the way you spoke that you might
have killed a man and had the bloodhounds after

A man's conscience is worse than having bloodhounds
after him, if he has to spend months in idleness through
no fault of his own, and no one to look for sympathy
from but a scoldin' wife.

The Lord protect us from scoldin' wives, anyway.
They're the scourge of Hell. But there are worse
things than being married to a wife with no control
over her temper. You might be like the thief who
broke into the house of Michael Cassily and stole his
grandfather's watch and chain and silver candlestick.

And when did all this happen?

During the small hours of the mornin'.

That was a damnable thing to do.

'Twas more foolish than anythin' else, because, if
Michael Cassily should ever lay hands upon the man
who stole his belongings, he'd shoot at him the way
you'd shoot at a rabbit in a ditch and kill him as dead
as one of Egypt's kings.

The Lord save us! You don't mean what you say.

I do, and every word of it. And a sure shot he is too.
Indeed 'tis said that nothing in the sky or on the land
could escape him when he has a gun in his hand.

I heard before comin' to this town that he was a very
quiet and inoffensive man.

And so he is a quiet man when he's left alone. But
when his temper is up, the devil himself is a gentleman
to him.

I'll have another glass of whiskey.

[Exit the publican. While he is away, Logan looks at
the torn part of his coat, and a stranger enters.

(saunters into the back kitchen, picks a
piece of wet paper off the floor, and tries to light it at the
fire for the purpose of lighting his pipe, and after several
unsuccessful attempts, he turns to Logan

Good mornin', and God bless you, stranger.

Good mornin', kindly.

It looks as though we were goin' to have a spell of
fine weather.

Judgin' by the way the wind is, it would seem so.

'Tis splendid weather for walkin' or tillin' the land.

'Tis good weather for anythin'.

All the same, 'tis a long stretch of a road from here
to Ballinore. How far is it, I wonder?

Twenty miles at least.

Every step of it, and a long road for a man with the
rheumatics and bronchitis too.

And what brought you from Ballinore?

And what would bring any poor man from his native
town but lookin' for work. And that's a hard thing
to be doin' when a man hasn't a friend to help him
towards a job.

A man can always make friends if he wants to.

'Tis no easy thing for a man who hasn't a sleutherin'
tongue and the takin' way with him to make friends,

'Tis easy enough to make fine weather friends. But
I suppose a friend isn't worth a damn unless he can
help a man when he's in trouble.

To have a lot of money is the easiest way of makin'
friends. But when a man hasn't either money or the
sleutherin' tongue, he can't expect to have any more
of the world's goods than myself.

And have you no friends at all among all the millions
of people on the face of the earth?

The devil a one ever bothers their head about me but
myself. And what I can do for myself is hardly worth
doin' for any one.

After all, when a man has his health and enough to
eat, he should be contented.

But how could you expect the likes of me to be contented
when I didn't break my fast this blessed day
yet, and all I have in the world is the bit of tobacco
you see in my old pipe, and unless you're not as dacent
as you look, 'tis hungry maybe I'll be until I find a
turnip field before the fall of night.

Would you drink a pint of porter and eat a penny bun?

Indeed I would, and remember the one in my prayers
who'd give them to me.

(knocks and the publican enters)

Bring this man a pint of porter and give him one of
the penny buns or two that you have on the porter
barrel in the shop.

Indeed I will and much good may they do him.

[Places pint of porter and bread in front of Falvey who
begins to eat and drink

God bless your noble soul and may you be long spared
to do good in the world. (As he eats) There's no
sauce like hunger, and no friend like the friend in need.

That's true. Now tell me, do you expect to get work
in this town?

'Tis my intention to try.

You'd have as much chance of slippin' into heaven
with your soul as black as a skillet from mortal sins,
unknownst to St. Peter, as you'd have of gettin' a
job with an old coat like that.

And what can I do, God help me, when I have no

I'll swap with you, and then you'll have some chance,
but otherwise you might as well walk back to where
you came from.

But I couldn't take a coat from a strange gentleman
like yourself and have an easy conscience. Sure, this
old coat of mine is only fit to be used for a scarecrow.

You're a fool to be talkin' like that, stranger. Don't
you know that you must take all you can get and give
away as little as you can if you want to be successful
in life?

And why, then, should you be givin' me your coat
when you want it yourself?

You had better say no more, lest I might change my
mind. Sure, 'tis sorry I may be to-night when I'm
facing the cold winds on the lonely roads that I exchanged
my fine warm coat for an old threadbare
garment that a rag man wouldn't give a child a lump
of candy for.

Sure, St. Francis himself couldn't do more, and he
that tore his coat in two and shared it with the beggars.

'Tis easy for a saint of God to be good, when he feels
that he'll be rewarded for his self-sacrifice, but have
no more old talk and give me that old coat of yours,
or if you don't I might change my mind, and then
you'll have plenty of time to regret your foolishness.

Very well, stranger, very well.

(They exchange coats)

May the Lord spare you all the days you want to
live, and may you never want for anythin' but the
ill wishes of your enemies.

That coat makes you look like a gentleman, and if
you only had a better hat, and a good shave, you
might get some old widow with a small farm to marry
you, if you are a bachelor.

Of course I'm a bachelor. Who'd be bothered with
the likes of me for a husband. Sure, I wouldn't raise
my hand to a woman in a thousand years, and what
do women care about a man unless he can earn lots
of money and leather the devil out of them when they
don't behave themselves?

That's true. And when a man hasn't any money to
give his wife, the next best thing to do is to give her a
good beatin'.

That's what my father used to say. But 'tis the lucky
thing for me all the same that I'm not married, an'
that I strayed into a house like this to-day. Yet I
don't think 'tis a bit fair for me to be wearin' your
fine coat and you wearin' mine. You don't look a
bit comfortable in it.

I feel comfortable, and far more comfortable than you
can imagine; and after all that's what matters. Every
eye forms its own beauty, and when the heart is
young, it doesn't matter how old you are.

That's true! That's true! But 'tis the dacent man
you are, nevertheless, and 'tisn't the likes of you that
a poor man like myself meets every day.

No, and it may be a long time again before you will
meet another like me. But be that as it may, I must
be going now, so here's a shillin' for you and go to the
barber's next door and have a shave before startin'
to look for work.

(Hands shilling)


Good-by, God bless you and long life to you.

[Exit Logan. Enter an old friend.

(walks slowly and takes the newspaper
from the table, looks at the clock

Only half-past ten, and damn the bit to do. Ah,
me! ah, me! One bloody day like another!

[Sits on the chair and yawns. Knocks for the publican.
Enter Driscoll.

Good mornin', Garret. Anythin' new to-day?

Yes, I have good news this mornin'.

An' what is it?

Oh, not much, only that a grand-uncle of mine is
after dyin' in America and leavin' me a fortune of a
hundred thousand pounds.


That's a terrible responsibility for a poor man to have
thrust upon him. What are you going to do with it at

Well, I was thinkin' of buyin' a new suit of clothes and
dividin' what's left between the poor of the town, the
Sisters of Charity, and the Salvation Army.

Wisha, I'm sick and tired of hearin' old yarns like
that. I suppose 'tis the way that you want a half
a glass of whiskey and haven't the price of it.

How dare you insinuate such a thing.

(Places a sovereign on the table)

Give me a half a whiskey and no
more old talk out of you.

And where did you get all that money?

That's my business. I got it from the captain in the
Salvation Army when I told him how much money I
was goin' to give him by and by.

Well, that's the first and last donation you'll ever
get from the Salvation Army. Sure, if you got all
the money that was to be left to you since I knew you
first, you'd be buildin' libraries all over the world like
Carnegie to advertise your vanity.

'Tis nothin' to you whether I will build libraries or
public houses for the poor when I'll get all the money
that's comin' to me.

Ah, wisha, I'm about sick and tired of hearin' all the
things you're going to do.


I don't give a damn whether you are or not. Go and
get me the whiskey, or I'll get it elsewhere.


Very well, very well! I'll get you the whiskey.


(to Falvey, who is still eating his loaf of bread)

Good mornin', stranger.

Good mornin' and good luck, sir.

'Tis a fine mornin'.

A glorious mornin', thank God.

Is that your breakfast that you're eatin'?

Indeed it is, stranger, and maybe my dinner and
supper too.

'Tis the hell of a thing to be poor.

Sure 'tis myself that knows it.

And 'tis as bad to be rich and not to be able to get
any of your money like myself.

There's trouble in everythin', but no respect for the

None whatever! none whatever! And no greater
misfortune could befall a man than to be poor and
honest at the same time. But all the same I'll be a
millionaire when my money comes from America.

America must be a great country. One man is as
good as another there, I believe.

So they say, when both of them have nothin'. (Looking
hard at the stranger
) Tell me, haven't I seen
you somewhere before? What's that your name is?

My name is Bernard Falvey, and I come from Ballinore.

Well, well, to be sure, and I'm Garret Devlin, your
mother's first cousin! Who'd ever think of meetin'
you here. The world is a small place after all!

It must be fifteen or more years since last we met.

Every day of it. And what have you been doing
since? I'd hardly know you at all, the way you have

Workin' when I wasn't idle and idle when I wasn't
workin', but in trouble all the time.

You're like myself. I too only exchange one kind of
trouble for another. When I got married I had to
live with the wife's mother for two years, and when
she died, I had to support my widowed sister-in-law's
three children. And when they were rared and fit
to be earnin' for themselves and be a help to me, they
got drowned. Then my poor wife lost her senses, and I
haven't had peace or ease ever since. She thinks that
she is the Queen of England, and that I'm the King.

An' have you no children?

One boy.

An' what does he do for a livin'?

He's a private in the militia, and his mother thinks
he's the Prince of Wales.

God help us all, but 'tis the queer things that happen
to the poor.

An' what are you doin' in these parts?

Lookin' for work.

An' that itself is the worst kind of hardship. I don't
think that there's much doin' these times for the
natives, not to mention the strangers, though 'tis
the strangers get the pickings wherever they go.
We'll have a look at the newspaper and see what's
doin' anyway. (Reads from the advertisement columns)
"Wanted a respectable man, to act as a coachman to
His Lordship the Bishop. He must have a good appearance,
have sober habits, and a knowledge of
horses and the ways of the clergy."
That won't do.

"Wanted, a young man of dashing appearance, with
a good vocabulary to act as travelling salesman, must
be well recommended, and have a thorough knowledge
of the dry goods business."
That won't do either.

"Wanted, a middle-aged man to act as companion to
an invalid. He must have a knowledge of French and
German, and be able to play the violin."
That won't do.

"Wanted a man to make himself generally useful at
an undertaker's establishment. Apply to Michael
Cassily. William O'Brien St."
Bedad, but that's the very job for you.

But how am I to get it?

I'll give you a letter of introduction to Micky Cassily.
He's an old friend of mine.

Sure, that would be a great thing entirely.

Wait now, and I'll make a man of you, and if you
should ever become Lord Mayor of Cork or Dublin,
you must not forget me.

Indeed, I'll never be able to forget this blessed day,
and the kindness of the people I have met in Castlemorgan.

[Knocks for the publican, and walks up and down;
when the publican enters, he assumes an air of great

What's the matter?

I want you to oblige me with a few sheets of note
paper, a bottle of ink, and a writin' pen.

And what do you want them for?

To write a letter of introduction for this poor man
here. He's lookin' for work, and I want to help him
to get it.

Then I'll give them to you with pleasure.


You needn't worry any more. I'll get a job for you.
Micky and myself are old friends. He buried my
father and mother and all belongin' to me. And
although I do say it myself, there isn't a better undertaker
from here to Dublin. He's as good a judge of a
dead man as any one you ever met, and could measure
the size of a coffin without using the tape at all.

[Enter Driscoll.]

(as he places writing materials on the table)

Here's the writing material, and may good luck attend you.

Thank you, very much.

(To Falvey)

Now to business.

[They both sit at the table, and Devlin commences to write.]

Deadwoman's Hill,

Dear Mr. Cassily:

I have the hon--how's that you spell honour?--h-o-n-n-o-u-r,
of course. Yes, that's right. I have the
honour, and likewise the (pauses) unprecedented--that's
not an easy word to spell--u-n-p-r-ee-s-c-ee-d-e-n-t-e-d--that
wasn't such a hard word after all,
and it looks fine in print (repeats) unprecedented and
the great pleasure--that spells p-l-e-a-s-u-r--of introducing,
that's a stumbler of a word,--i-n-t-r-d--

(to Falvey)]

Can you spell the rest of it?


No. That's not right. We had better call Bill
Driscoll. Are you there, Bill?

[Enter Driscoll.]

What's the matter?

We want you to spell "introducing."

(wiping a pint measure)

With pleasure. (Confidently) i-n-t-u-r-d-e-w-c-i-n-g.

Are you sure that is right?

Of course I am. What do you think I went to school

Very well, I'll take your word for it. But stay here
awhile, because we may want your assistance soon
again. This is an important matter, and we must
give all our attention to it. I have the honor and
likewise the unprecedented and the great pleasure of
introducing to you a cousin of my own on my mother's
side, one Barney Falvey. He is a man of many and
n-e-w-m-e-r-o-w-s. (To Driscoll) Isn't that right?

That's all right. Proceed.

--numerous a-c-o-m-p-l-i-s-h-m-e-n-t-s. That sounds
wrong, doesn't it?

It sounds wrong, but let it go. No one will ever notice
the mistake, when we can't find it out ourselves.

He has an i-n-g-a-n-o-s turn of mind, and can do all
kinds of hard or easy work. He can p-l-o-w a field,
milk a cow, mind childer, and make nearly every
thing from a bird cage, a mousetrap, or a snuff box,
to a coffin. He is w-i-l-i-n, o-b-l-i-g-i-n, and can put
up with all kinds of abuse. He can look i-n-o-s-c-e-n-t
or guilty, as the occasion may require and will, I'm
sure, and certain, taking his accomplishments all
round, prove to be the very man you are lookin' for
to fill the v-a-k-a-n-c-y in your highly respected
e-s-t-a-b-1-i-shment. Anythin' you can do for him
will be considered a personal f-a-v-o-u-r by your old
and e-s-t-e-a-m-ed friend,

Garret Devlin.

[He reads it over again aloud.]

"Deadwoman's Hill,

"Dear Mr. Cassily:

"I have the honour and likewise the unprecedented
and great pleasure of introducin' to you a cousin of
my own on my mother's side, one Barney Falvey. He
is a man of many parts and numerous accomplishments.
He has an ingenious turn of mind and can do
all kinds of hard and easy work. He can plow a field,
milk a cow, mind childer, and make nearly everythin'
from a bird cage, a mousetrap, or a snuff box, to
a coffin. He is willin' and obligin' and can put up
with all kinds of abuse. He can look innocent or
guilty as the occasion may require, and will, I am
certain and confident, taking his accomplishments all
round, prove to be the very man you are lookin' for
to fill the vacancy in your highly respected establishment.
Anythin' that you can do for him will be considered
a personal favour by your old and esteemed

"Garret Devlin."

That's a great letter. Be God, sure 'twould nearly
get the job for myself. But it would never do for one
of my social standin' to take such a position in this

'Tis a great thing to be able to put so many words
together on paper. And 'tis the wonderful gift to
have surely. A man that could write like you should
be a secretary to the Lord Lieutenant himself, or
writin' sermons for the Pope of Rome.

Now, no more old palaver, talk is cheap, but it takes
money to buy whiskey. Look as smart as you can
(hands letter), and deliver this letter before it's too
late. There's nothin' like doin' things with despatch
when you're in a hurry. Wait, your face is none too
clean. Where's your handkerchief? (Hands him an
old dirty handkerchief. He drains the dregs of a pewter
pint on the handkerchief, and wipes his face with it.
Then he looks at Falvey's boots
) Glory be to God!
but you're a very careless man! When did you clean
these boots last?

Wisha, who could keep boots clean upon the dirty

[Takes off his old hat and wipes his boots with it]

That's better. Now take off that old tie, and I'll
give you mine. But you must return it to me when
you get the job. It belonged to my grandfather, and
it always brought luck to the family.

[They exchange ties, and Devlin's toilet is completed by
brushing the legs of his old trousers with a sweeping

(looking at him approvingly)

If you always kept yourself as respectable lookin' as
that, you would never want for work, I'm thinkin'.

(looking at himself in an old mirror)

There's somethin' in what you say. Sure my mother
always told me I was the best lookin' in the family.

That may be, but your beauty isn't of the fatal kind.

(Shaking hands with him)

Good luck now, and I'll
wait here until you'll return.

God bless you, God bless you, I'll be back as soon as I can.


(knocks and orders another half of whiskey)

Another half one. That letter took a lot out of me.

Literature, they say, is always a great strain on a
man's vitality. I was offered a job as proof reader on
a newspaper one time, but my friends advised me not
to take it.

Your friends were wise. Stayin' up at night is bad
for any man. 'Tis hard enough to be up in the mornin'
without bein' up at night as well.

(places drink on table)

That's true.

[Exit. A man of about forty-five enters, with a pint of
porter in his hand. He sits near Devlin

Good mornin', stranger.

Good mornin'.

'Tis a fine day for this time of year.

This would be a fine day for any part of the year.

Fine weather is the least of the good things that the
poor is entitled to.

The poor have their wants, of course, but the rich,
bad luck and misfortune to them one and all, have
their troubles also, because they don't know what
they want, the discontented, lazy, good-for-nothin'
varmints. May they all perish be their own folly
before the world or their money comes to an end.

'Tis only the poor who knows how bad the rich are.
And only the rich that can be hard on the poor. Have
you a match, if you please?

(handing a box)

You'll find plenty in that.

All the comfort some of us have in this world is a
smoke, that's when we have the tobacco, of course.

There'll be smokin' enough in the next world, they
say, but that's cold comfort to a man without the
fillin's of a pipe or a match to light it.

'Tis a great misfortune to be born at all.

That's what I've often been thinkin'. And many's
the time I've cursed the day that my father met my


'Twould be better for us all in spite
of what the clergy say that we were all Protestants,
or else died before we came to the use of reason.
But things might be worse.

Trouble comes to us all, and 'tis a consolation to
know that the King must die as well as the beggar.
Think of me, and I after losin' my return ticket to
Carlow, and I must be there to-night even if I have
to walk every step of the way.

And haven't you the price of your ticket?

The devil a penny at all have I, and unless I can sell
my watch to buy my ticket with, I'll lose my job, and
then my wife and family must go to the workhouse.

God himself seems to be no friend of the poor. That
was a terrible calamity to befall a stranger. How
much will your ticket cost?

Ten shillin's, and I'm willin' to part with my watch
for that triflin' sum, though 'twas my poor father's,
rest his soul.

(Holds watch in his hand)

Look at it, 'tis as fine a timepiece as eyes ever rested on.
A solid silver watch, and a chain of solid gold, and
all for ten shillin's. And history enough attached
to it to write a book.

'Tis a bargain surely.

A man wearin' a watch and chain like that would get
credit anywhere he'd be known, though 'twould be
no use to a stranger.

Leave me see how 'twould look on me.

(The stranger hands him the watch, and Devlin
adjusts it to his vest front, walks up and down
the room, and looks in the glass

Bedad, but you're right. It does make a man
feel good, and maybe better than he is.

A man walkin' into a friend's house with ornamentation
on him like that would get the lend of anythin'.


I believe he would.

Indeed you may say so.

And you'll sell it for ten shillin's.

Yes, if you'll be quick about it, because I must catch
the train and get home as soon as I can.

Does it keep good time?

'Tis the best timekeeper that ever was.

(places watch to his ear)

It has a good strong tick, anyway. I'll give you the
ten shillin's for it. Here you are.

(takes the money)

Thank you kindly, though it nearly breaks my heart
to part with it.

Life is made up of comin' and goin', and what we lose
to-day we may gain to-morrow, and lose again the
next day.

One man's loss is another man's profit, and that's how
the world keeps movin'.

True. And there's no use in being alive unless we
can help each other. Sure 'tis for each other, and
not by each other, that we should live.

'Pon my word, but to know how to live is the greatest
problem of all.

That's so. Sometimes 'tis foolish to be wise and other
times 'tis wise to be foolish, but the sensible man will
always look out for himself and let his friends look
after his enemies.

Every word you say is true, but I must be goin' or I'll
lose the train. So I'll bid you good-by and good luck.

Good day and good luck to you also.

(Exit Nagle)

The stranger was right. A man with a watch and
chain like this, and able to tell every one the time of
day, could get as much on his word as he'd want.

[Buttons his coat and takes up the newspaper, sits in
the chair and commences to read. He is soon disturbed
by the entrance of Bernard Falvey, Michael Cassily,
two policemen, and several of the townspeople

(pointing to Devlin)

Is this the man who gave you the letter of introduction?

That's the man who has brought all this trouble on
me, but I'm as innocent as the babe unborn of the
charge of burglary.

Hold your tongue, I say. What greater proof could
we have than the torn coat which you're wearin'?

I tell you that I got this coat from a stranger I met
in this house, this mornin'.

And sure you're the one who can look innocent, believe
me. But this won't be much good to you when
you go before the magistrates. Now we'll deal with
your partner.

(Places his hand on Devlin's shoulder)

I must arrest you on suspicion for being an accomplice
of this strange man here who broke into Mr. Michael
Cassily's establishment last night, and stole five pound
notes, two silver candlesticks and a silver watch and
golden chain.

Is it madness that has come upon the crowd of you?
Me that never stole anythin' in my life, to be accused
of robbin' from a dacent man like Michael Cassily!

Search him, constable.

Of course, I will. (He opens his coat, finds the watch
and chain, takes it off, hands it to Michael Cassily
Is that yours?

Yes, constable, that's the watch and chain that was
stolen from my house this mornin'.

What have you to say for yourself now?

Nothin', only that I paid ten shillin's to a stranger
less than half an hour ago.

And where did you get the ten shillin's, you that
haven't had ten shillin's of your own altogether for
ten years, but always borrowin' money and tellin' the
people that you are goin' to inherit a fortune from

Tis the truth I'm tellin' you.

Nonsense, nonsense. What greater proof could we
have of your guilt? This man here who you gave the
letter of introduction is a stranger to the town and
the piece of cloth that Mr. Cassily found hangin' on
a nail in his back porch after the burglary was committed,
is the piece of cloth that is missin' from this
man's coat.

(Fits the piece of cloth)
And we have found the identical watch and chain on your own person.

'Twas a clever scheme of the pair of them and no
doubt about it.

I never thought that any one could add insult to
injury in such a manner. I was always a friend to
you, Garret Devlin, and you tried to get this man
who had already robbed me, a position in my establishment
so that he could rob me all the more.

As sure as my great-grandfather is dead and gone, I
tell you that I got this coat from a stranger in this
very house.

And as sure as the devil has paid a visit this blessed
day to Castlemorgan, I tell you I bought that watch
and chain from a stranger also. William Driscoll
will prove that there were two such men in his

If William Driscoll says a word in your defence, he'll
be arrested on suspicion also.

(To the publican)
What have you to say?

Not a word, constable, not a word. I know nothin'
at all about the matter except readin' the account of
the dreadful affair in the mornin' paper.

[First policeman places the handcuffs on both, and
walks them towards the door

What's goin' to happen to us at all, at all?

The judge will tell you that at the next assizes.


[The end]
Seumas O'Brien's play: Magnanimity: A Comedy In One Act