CHRISTY.
flattered.—Aye; it’s maybe something big.
JIMMY.
He’s a wicked-looking young fellow. Maybe he followed after a young woman on a lonesome night.
CHRISTY.
shocked.—Oh, the saints forbid, mister; I was all times a decent lad.
PHILLY.
turning on Jimmy.—You’re a silly man, Jimmy Farrell. He said his father was a farmer a while since, and there’s himself now in a poor state. Maybe the land was grabbed from him, and he did what any decent man would do.
MICHAEL.
to Christy, mysteriously.—Was it bailiffs?
CHRISTY.
The divil a one.
MICHAEL.
Agents?
CHRISTY.
The divil a one.
MICHAEL.
Landlords?
CHRISTY.
peevishly.—Ah, not at all, I’m saying. You’d see the like of them stories on any little paper of a Munster town. But I’m not calling to mind any person, gentle, simple, judge or jury, did the like of me. [They all draw nearer with delighted curiosity.]