WIDOW QUIN.
going over.—What ails you?
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.
Did you see the young lad?
WIDOW QUIN.
stiffly.—What kind was he?
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.