PEGEEN.
And you shot him dead?
CHRISTY.
shaking his head.—I never used weapons. I’ve no license, and I’m a law-fearing man.
MICHAEL.
It was with a hilted knife maybe? I’m told, in the big world it’s bloody knives they use.
CHRISTY.
loudly, scandalized.—Do you take me for a slaughter-boy?
PEGEEN.
You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the license, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it had life?
CHRISTY.
I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and never let a grunt or groan from him at all.
MICHAEL.
making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy’s glass.—And what way weren’t you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then?
CHRISTY.
considering.—Aye. I buried him then. Wasn’t I digging spuds in the field?
MICHAEL.
And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that you’re out?
CHRISTY.
shaking his head.—Never a one of them, and I walking forward facing hog, dog, or divil on the highway of the road.