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SIR PEARCE

[sitting down again, exhausted by his feelings]. Well, I never could have believed this. Never. What do you suppose will happen when she finds out?

O’FLAHERTY

. She mustn’t find out. It’s not that she’d half kill me, as big as I am and as brave as I am. It’s that I’m fond of her, and can’t bring myself to break the heart in her. You may think it queer that a man should be fond of his mother, sir, and she having bet him from the time he could feel to the time she was too slow to ketch him; but I’m fond of her; and I’m not ashamed of it. Besides, didn’t she win the Cross for me?

SIR PEARCE

. Your mother! How?

O’FLAHERTY

. By bringing me up to be more afraid of running away than of fighting. I was timid by nature; and when the other boys hurted me, I’d want to run away and cry. But she whaled me for disgracing the blood of the O’Flahertys until I’d have fought the divil himself sooner than face her after funking a fight. That was how I got to know that fighting was easier than it looked, and that the others was as much afeard of me as I was of them, and that if I only held out long enough they’d lose heart and give rip. That’s the way I came to be so courageous. I tell you, Sir Pearce, if the German army had been brought up by my mother, the Kaiser would be dining in the banqueting hall at Buckingham Palace this day, and King George polishing his jack boots for him in the scullery.

SIR PEARCE

. But I don’t like this, O’Flaherty. You can’t go on deceiving your mother, you know. It’s not right.

O’FLAHERTY

. Can’t go on deceiving her, can’t I? It’s little you know what a son’s love can do, sir. Did you ever notice what a ready liar I am?

SIR PEARCE

. Well, in recruiting a man gets carried away. I stretch it a bit occasionally myself. After all, it’s for king and country. But if you won’t mind my saying it, O’Flaherty, I think that story about your fighting the Kaiser and the twelve giants of the Prussian guard singlehanded would be the better for a little toning down. I don’t ask you to drop it, you know; for it’s popular, undoubtedly; but still, the truth is the truth. Don’t you think it would fetch in almost as many recruits if you reduced the number of guardsmen to six?

O’FLAHERTY

. You’re not used to telling lies like I am, sir. I got great practice at home with my mother. What with saving my skin when I was young and thoughtless, and sparing her feelings when I was old enough to understand them, I’ve hardly told my mother the truth twice a year since I was born; and would you have me turn round on her and tell it now, when she’s looking to have some peace and quiet in her old age?

SIR PEARCE

(troubled in his conscience]. Well, it’s not my affair, of course, O’Flaherty. But hadn’t you better talk to Father Quinlan about it?

O’FLAHERTY

. Talk to Father Quinlan, is it! Do you know what Father Quinlan says to me this very morning?

SIR PEARCE

. Oh, you’ve seen him already, have you? What did he say?

O’FLAHERTY

. He says “You know, don’t you,” he says, “that it’s your duty, as a Christian and a good son of the Holy Church, to love your enemies?” he says. “I know it’s my juty as a soldier to kill them,” I says. “That’s right, Dinny,” he says: “quite right. But,” says he, “you can kill them and do them a good turn afterward to show your love for them” he says; “and it’s your duty to have a mass said for the souls of the hundreds of Germans you say you killed,” says he; “for many and many of them were Bavarians and good Catholics,” he says. “Is it me that must pay for masses for the souls of the Boshes?” I says. “Let the King of England pay for them,” I says; “for it was his quarrel and not mine.”