PEGEEN.
Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her leaky thatch is growing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of fields, and she without a tramp itself to keep in order her place at all.
WIDOW QUIN.
When you see me contriving in my little gardens, Christy Mahon, you’ll swear the Lord God formed me to be living lone, and that there isn’t my match in Mayo for thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep.
PEGEEN.
with noisy scorn.—It’s true the Lord God formed you to contrive indeed. Doesn’t the world know you reared a black lamb at your own breast, so that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of a Christian, and he eating it after in a kidney stew? Doesn’t the world know you’ve been seen shaving the foxy skipper from France for a threepenny bit and a sop of grass tobacco would wring the liver from a mountain goat you’d meet leaping the hills?
WIDOW QUIN.
with amusement.—Do you hear her now, young fellow? Do you hear the way she’ll be rating at your own self when a week is by?
PEGEEN.
to Christy.—Don’t heed her. Tell her to go into her pigsty and not plague us here.
WIDOW QUIN.
I’m going; but he’ll come with me.
PEGEEN.
shaking him.—Are you dumb, young fellow?
CHRISTY.
timidly, to Widow Quin.—God increase you; but I’m pot-boy in this place, and it’s here I’d liefer stay.
PEGEEN.
triumphantly.—Now you have heard him, and go on from this.
WIDOW QUIN.
looking round the room.—It’s lonesome this hour crossing the hill, and if he won’t come along with me, I’d have a right maybe to stop this night with yourselves. Let me stretch out on the settle, Pegeen Mike; and himself can lie by the hearth.