T. J. And why would you not be? Sure, you have the pension for himself, and what better use can a woman find for a pension that is for her man that is dead than to get another that is alive and well?
Mrs. J. Will you tell me now where I would find a husband that would be the equal of a man who gave his life for his fellow-travellers—and him with the rheumatics?
T. J. Sure, it’s the grand position you have entirely now, and every man and woman in the whole country-side scheming and scraping to give a few pennies to the collection for the statue, and the Lord-Lieutenant himself coming down for the unveiling—and it’s difficult it would be to find a man that was fine enough to marry you at all—but—but (looking round) don’t I know the very man for you?
Mrs. J. And who might that be, for goodness sake?
T. J. (confidentially). Come within now and I’ll tell you. I’d be fearful here that one of the lads would maybe hear me.
(They go into the house.)
(A man strolls along the road, looking about him with keen interest; he is wild and mysterious of aspect, with shaggy hair and travel-stained, untidy clothes. He stops with a start in front of the statue and gazes at it with amazement; then he slowly reads the inscription.)
Mr. J. “Michael Flannigan Joner, who gave his life for his fellow-travellers.” (In stupefaction.) Glory be to God! (Turning to the house.) Bridget Ellen—are you within there? (He turns and gazes at the statue again.)
(There is a sound of laughter in the house. Mrs. J. and Timothy J. come out, arm-in-arm and affectionate; they see the man and stop dead in the doorway.)
T. J. Glory be to God!