Paul Ruttledge. I will explain. [Sits down on the edge of iron table.] Did you never wish to be a witch, and to ride through the air on a white horse?
Mr. Joyce. I can't say I ever did.
Paul Ruttledge. Never? Only think of it—to ride in the darkness under the stars, to make one's horse leap from cloud to cloud, to watch the sea glittering under one's feet and the mountain tops going by.
Colonel Lawley. But what has this to do with the tinkers?
Paul Ruttledge. As I cannot find a broomstick that will turn itself into a white horse, I am going to turn tinker.
Mr. Dowler. I suppose you have some picturesque idea about these people, but I assure you, you are quite wrong. They are nothing but poachers.
Mr. Algie. They are nothing but thieves.
Mr. Joyce. They are the worst class in the country.
Paul Ruttledge. Oh, I know that; they are quite lawless. That is what attracts me to them. I am going to be irresponsible.
Mr. Green. One cannot escape from responsibility by joining a set of vagabonds.