Peter. When are you going to make me happy, Margaret?
Peter. Your lord will be pleased in a month.
Well, little mother, have you disseminated the intelligence?
Mrs. G. (_uncomprehendingly_). No. I've been telling folks about you. (_She takes off bonnet and cape and hangs them on door right._) Some of _'_em's green with jealousy this night. They know I'm the mother of a great man now.
Mrs. G. I meant being first. Who'd the better right to be? Me or a wild Irishman? (_Crossing to dresser and emptying on a plate the contents of a parcel she had brought in._)
Peter (_smiling_). And you've been killing the fatted calf for me?
Mrs. G. (_literally_). Oh, did you want pressed veal? I've got ham.
Peter. I don't want veal. Food's not a bad idea, though.
Mrs. G. (_looking at Margaret_). No. Margaret might have thought of that and put the kettle on if she'd had her wits about her.
Mar. (_rising_). I'm sorry, Mrs. Garside. We've been talking.
Mrs. G. You'd some excuse. Peter's given us something to talk about.
Peter. We'll all help. I'll lay the table.
Mrs. G. You don't stir a finger, my lad. Sit you down.
[_Peter sits with amused resignation in rocking-chair._
Mrs. G. B.A.s don't lay tables. Now, Margaret. (_Mrs. Garside takes white cloth from drawer in table and she and Margaret spread it. There is a knock at the door. Peter gets up. Mrs. Garside pushes him back into his chair_). I've told you to sit still. (_She crosses to door centre and opens it._)
O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). May we come in, Mrs. Garside?
Mrs. G. (_genially_). Yes. Come in, the lot of you.
[_The three who enter are working men in their evening clothes. Denis O'Callagan is 35, clean shaven, an enthusiastic impractical Irishman, small and dark. Karl Marx Jones is 30, wears a formally trimmed beard, is precise in utterance, doctrinaire in outlook, and practical in procedure. Ned Applegarth is a man of 50, his age carrying sober authority, very earnest in manner, grizzled moustache, grey hair, black cut-away coat and turn-down collar, a responsible leader deferred to willingly by O'Callagan, ungraciously by Jones. Ned, entering last, closes the door. Each, as he speaks, shakes Peter's hand._
O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). Aye. Let us come in, for it's a great night surely, and we fair bursting with the glory of the thing that's done this day.
