(Sound a flourish. Exeunt.)
THE SLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD
(A Play in the Irish Manner.)
Scene I.
—A hovel by the sea at Ballycottin, near Queenstown. Eamon, in squalid garments and in an appropriate attitude of misery, is crouched over the fire. Seamus Smitha is distilling poteen by the door. Peadar Roabensôn and the Men of Gunn (a war-like clan) are lurking in the background. Caitilin ni Houlihan, Bridgeen Dick, and the Widow Markiewicz are watching Eamon with speechless devotion. The door is flung open and Sean de Browna bursts in.
Sean: Where’s himself?
Seamus: Taking a bit of sleep, maybe, if he’s able—God help him!
Sean (exultantly): There’s fine doings on the sands this night, with great ships boarded and sunk and the lads making grand talk. Rifles and cannon we’ve taken, and munitions would be enough for a great war.
The Men of Gunn (murmuring appreciatively): Bully for you, Kid!
Peadar: It’s himself will bless these tidings. (Addressing Eamon with conspicuous timidity): Mister, honey, he’s after saying they’ve sunk the British Navy, and captured all the munitions in the western world.