BROADBENT. Not an Irishman! [He is so amazed by the statement
that he straightens himself and brings the stool bolt upright].

DOYLE. Born in Glasgow. Never was in Ireland in his life. I know
all about him.

BROADBENT. But he spoke--he behaved just like an Irishman.

DOYLE. Like an Irishman!! Is it possible that you don't know that
all this top-o-the-morning and broth-of-a-boy and more-power-to-
your-elbow business is as peculiar to England as the Albert Hall
concerts of Irish music are? No Irishman ever talks like that in
Ireland, or ever did, or ever will. But when a thoroughly
worthless Irishman comes to England, and finds the whole place
full of romantic duffers like you, who will let him loaf and
drink and sponge and brag as long as he flatters your sense of
moral superiority by playing the fool and degrading himself and
his country, he soon learns the antics that take you in. He picks
them up at the theatre or the music hall. Haffigan learnt the
rudiments from his father, who came from my part of Ireland. I
knew his uncles, Matt and Andy Haffigan of Rosscullen.

BROADBENT [still incredulous]. But his brogue!

DOYLE. His brogue! A fat lot you know about brogues! I've heard
you call a Dublin accent that you could hang your hat on, a
brogue. Heaven help you! you don't know the difference between
Connemara and Rathmines. [With violent irritation] Oh, damn Tim
Haffigan! Let's drop the subject: he's not worth wrangling about.