Christy Wouldn’t any wish to be decent in a place …

Pegeen Whisht, I’m saying.

Christy (looks at her face for a moment with great misgivings, then as a last effort, takes up a loy, and goes towards her, with feigned assurance). It was with a loy the like of that I killed my father.

Pegeen (still sharply). You’ve told me that story six times since the dawn of day.

Christy (reproachfully). It’s a queer thing you wouldn’t care to be hearing it and them girls after walking four miles to be listening to me now.

Pegeen (turning round astonished). Four miles?

Christy (apologetically). Didn’t himself say there were only four bona fides living in the place?

Pegeen It’s bona fides by the road they are, but that lot came over the river lepping the stones. It’s not three perches when you go like that, and I was down this morning looking on the papers the post-boy does have in his bag. (With meaning and emphasis.) For there was great news this day, Christopher Mahon.

She goes into room left.

Christy (suspiciously). Is it news of my murder?

Pegeen (inside). Murder, indeed.

Christy (loudly). A murdered da?

Pegeen (coming in again and crossing right). There was not, but a story filled half a page of the hanging of a man. Ah, that should be a fearful end, young fellow, and it worst of all for a man who destroyed his da, for the like of him would get small mercies, and when it’s dead he is, they’d put him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him round, and pour down quicklime on his head, the way you’d see a woman pouring any frish-frash from a cup.

Christy (very miserably). Oh, God help me. Are you thinking I’m safe? You were saying at the fall of night, I was shut of jeopardy and I here with yourselves.

Pegeen (severely). You’ll be shut of jeopardy no place if you go talking with a pack of wild girls the like of them do be walking abroad with the peelers, talking whispers at the fall of night.

Christy (with terror). And you’re thinking they’d tell?

Pegeen (with mock sympathy). Who knows, God help you?

Christy (loudly). What joy would they have to bring hanging to the likes of me?

Pegeen It’s queer joys they have, and who knows the thing they’d do, if it’d make the green stones cry itself to think of you swaying and swiggling at the butt of a rope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God bless you! the way you’d be a half an hour, in great anguish, getting your death.

Christy (getting his boots and putting them on). If there’s that terror of them, it’d be best, maybe, I went on wandering like Esau or Cain and Abel on the sides of Neifin or the Erris plain.

Pegeen (beginning to play with him). It would, maybe, for I’ve heard the Circuit Judges this place is a heartless crew.