MARTIN DOUL.
crying out indignantly. — You know rightly, Timmy, it was myself drove her away.
TIMMY.
That’s a lie you’re telling, yet it’s little I care which one of you was driving the other, and let you walk back here, I’m saying, to your work.
MARTIN DOUL.
turning round. — I’m coming, surely.
[He stops and looks out right, going a step or two towards centre.]
TIMMY.
On what is it you’re gaping, Martin Doul?
MARTIN DOUL.
There’s a person walking above.... It’s Molly Byrne, I’m thinking, coming down with her can.
TIMMY.
If she is itself let you not be idling this day, or minding her at all, and let you hurry with them sticks, for I’ll want you in a short while to be blowing in the forge.
[He throws down pot-hooks.]
MARTIN DOUL.
crying out. — Is it roasting me now you’d be? (Turns back and sees pot-hooks; he takes them up.) Pot-hooks? Is it over them you’ve been inside sneezing and sweating since the dawn of day?
TIMMY.
resting himself on anvil, with satisfaction. — I’m making a power of things you do have when you’re settling with a wife, Martin Doul; for I heard tell last night the Saint’ll be passing again in a short while, and I’d have him wed Molly with myself.... He’d do it, I’ve heard them say, for not a penny at all.