MR. QUIRKE. Is it idiots ye all are?
SERGEANT. Mind who you're talking to.
MR. QUIRKE. [Seizing Hyacinth's hands.] Can't you see? Can't you hear? Where are your wits? Was ever such a thing seen in this town?
MRS. DELANE. Say out what you have to say.
MR. QUIRKE. A walking saint he is!
MRS. DELANE. Maybe so.
MR. QUIRKE. The preserver of the poor! Talk of the holy martyrs! They are nothing at all to what he is! Will you look at him! To save that poor boy he is going! To take the blame on himself he is going! To say he, himself, did the robbery he is going! Before the magistrate he is going! To jail he is going! Taking the blame on his own head! Putting the sin on his own shoulders! Letting on to have done a robbery! Telling a lie—that it may be forgiven him—to his own injury! Doing all that, I tell you, to save the character of a miserable slack lad, that rose in poverty.
[Murmur of admiration from all.
MR. QUIRKE. Now, what do you say?
SERGEANT. [Pressing his hand.] Mr. Halvey, you have given us all a lesson. To please you, I will make no information against the boy, [Shakes him and helps him up.] I will put back the half-crown in the poor-box next Sunday. [To Fardy.] What have you to say to your benefactor?