BENTLEY. I didnt call you a swine. But _[bursting into a fury of
tears]_ you are a swine: youre a beast: youre a brute: youre a
cad: youre a liar: youre a bully: I should like to wring your
damned neck for you.

JOHNNY. _[with a derisive laugh]_ Try it, my son. _[Bentley gives
an inarticulate sob of rage]._ Fighting isnt in your line. Youre too
small and youre too childish. I always suspected that your cleverness
wouldnt come to very much when it was brought up against something
solid: some decent chap's fist, for instance.

BENTLEY. I hope your beastly fist may come up against a mad bull or a
prizefighter's nose, or something solider than me. I dont care about
your fist; but if everybody here dislikes me-- _[he is checked by a
sob]._ Well, I dont care. _[Trying to recover himself]_ I'm sorry I
intruded: I didnt know. _[Breaking down again]_ Oh you beast! you
pig! Swine, swine, swine, swine, swine! Now!

JOHNNY. All right, my lad, all right. Sling your mud as hard as you
please: it wont stick to me. What I want to know is this. How is it
that your father, who I suppose is the strongest man England has
produced in our time--

BENTLEY. You got that out of your halfpenny paper. A lot you know
about him!

JOHNNY. I dont set up to be able to do anything but admire him and
appreciate him and be proud of him as an Englishman. If it wasnt for
my respect for him, I wouldnt have stood your cheek for two days, let