ise of shouting. ANDREW, who has been standing at the
door for a moment, comes in.]

ANDREW. Martin says truth, and he says it well. Planing the side of a
cart or a shaft, is that life? It is not. Sitting at a desk writing
letters to the man that wants a coach or to the man that won't pay for
the one he has got, is that life, I ask you? Thomas arguing at you and
putting you down, "Andrew, dear Andrew, did you put the tyre on that
wheel yet?" Is that life? No, it is not. I ask you all what do you
remember when you are dead? It's the sweet cup in the corner of the
widow's drinking house that you remember. Ha, ha, listen to that
shouting! That is what the lads in the village will remember to the
last day they live!

MARTIN. Why are they shouting? What have you told them?

ANDREW. Never you mind. You left that to me. You bade me to lift their
hearts, and I did lift them. There is not one among them but will have
his head like a blazing tar barrel before morning. What did your
friend, the beggar, say? The juice of the grey barley, he said.

FATHER JOHN. You accursed villain! You have made them drunk!

ANDREW. Not at all, but lifting them to the stars. That is what Martin
bade me to do, and there is no one can say I did not do it.

[_A shout at door and beggars push in a barrel. They all cry,
"Hi! for the noble master!" and point at_ ANDREW.]

JOHNNY B. It's not him, it's that one!

[_Points at_ MARTIN.]

FATHER JOHN. Are you bringing this devil's work in at the very door? Go
out of this, I say! Get out! Take these others with you!

MARTIN. No, no, I asked them in; they must not be turned out. They are
my guests.

FATHER JOHN. Drive them out of your uncle's house!

MARTIN. Come, Father, it is better for you to go. Go back to your own
place. I have taken the command. It is better, perhaps, for you that
you did not take it. [MARTIN _and_ FATHER JOHN _go out._]

BIDDY. It is well for that old lad he didn't come between ourselves and
our luck. It would be right to have flayed him and to have made bags of
his skin.

NANNY. What a hurry you are in to get your enough! Look at the grease
on your frock yet with the dint of the dabs you put in your pocket!
Doing cures and foretellings, is it? You starved pot picker, you!

BIDDY. That you may be put up to-morrow to take the place of that
decent son of yours that had the yard of the gaol wore with walking it
till this morning!