SHAWN. Well, I’m going measuring the race-course while the tide is low, so I’ll leave you the garments and my blessing for the sports to-day. God bless you! [_He wriggles out._]
WIDOW QUIN. _admiring Christy._—Well, you’re mighty spruce, young fellow. Sit down now while you’re quiet till you talk with me.
CHRISTY. _swaggering._—I’m going abroad on the hillside for to seek Pegeen.
WIDOW QUIN. You’ll have time and plenty for to seek Pegeen, and you heard me saying at the fall of night the two of us should be great company.
CHRISTY. From this out I’ll have no want of company when all sorts is bringing me their food and clothing (_he swaggers to the door, tightening his belt_), the way they’d set their eyes upon a gallant orphan cleft his father with one blow to the breeches belt. (_He opens door, then staggers back._) Saints of glory! Holy angels from the throne of light!
CHRISTY. It’s the walking spirit of my murdered da!
WIDOW QUIN. _looking out._—Is it that tramper?
CHRISTY. _wildly._—Where’ll I hide my poor body from that ghost of hell? [_The door is pushed open, and old Mahon appears on threshold. Christy darts in behind door._]
WIDOW QUIN. _in great amazement._—God save you, my poor man.
MAHON. _gruffly._—Did you see a young lad passing this way in the early morning or the fall of night?
WIDOW QUIN. You’re a queer kind to walk in not saluting at all.
MAHON. An ugly young streeler with a murderous gob on him, and a little switch in his hand. I met a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of night.
WIDOW QUIN. There’s harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo boat. For what is it you’re wanting him, my poor man?
MAHON. I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of a loy. (_He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages and plaster, with some pride._) It was he did that, and amn’t I a great wonder to think I’ve traced him ten days with that rent in my crown?
WIDOW QUIN. _taking his head in both hands and examining it with extreme delight._—That was a great blow. And who hit you? A robber maybe?
MAHON. It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything else, but a dirty, stuttering lout.
WIDOW QUIN. _letting go his skull and wiping her hands in her apron._—You’d best be wary of a mortified scalp, I think they call it, lepping around with that wound in the splendour of the sun. It was a bad blow surely, and you should have vexed him fearful to make him strike that gash in his da.