CHRISTY. _getting almost excited._—I did not. “I won’t wed her,” says I, “when all know she did suckle me for six weeks when I came into the world, and she a hag this day with a tongue on her has the crows and seabirds scattered, the way they wouldn’t cast a shadow on her garden with the dread of her curse.” WIDOW QUIN. _teasingly._—That one should be right company. SARA. _eagerly._—Don’t mind her. Did you kill him then? CHRISTY. “She’s too good for the like of you,” says he, “and go on now or I’ll flatten you out like a crawling beast has passed under a dray.” “You will not if I can help it,” says I. “Go on,” says he, “or I’ll have the divil making garters of your limbs tonight.” “You will not if I can help it,” says I. [_He sits up, brandishing his mug._] SARA. You were right surely. CHRISTY. _impressively._—With that the sun came out between the cloud and the hill, and it shining green in my face. “God have mercy on your soul,” says he, lifting a scythe; “or on your own,” says I, raising the loy. SUSAN. That’s a grand story. HONOR. He tells it lovely. CHRISTY. _flattered and confident, waving bone._—He gave a drive with the scythe, and I gave a lep to the east. Then I turned around with my back to the north, and I hit a blow on the ridge of his skull, laid him stretched out, and he split to the knob of his gullet. [_He raises the chicken bone to his Adam’s apple._] GIRLS. _together._—Well, you’re a marvel! Oh, God bless you! You’re the lad surely! SUSAN. I’m thinking the Lord God sent him this road to make a second husband to the Widow Quin, and she with a great yearning to be wedded, though all dread her here. Lift him on her knee, Sara Tansey. WIDOW QUIN. Don’t tease him. SARA. _going over to dresser and counter very quickly, and getting two glasses and porter._—You’re heroes surely, and let you drink a supeen with your arms linked like the outlandish lovers in the sailor’s song. (_She links their arms and gives them the glasses._) There now. Drink a health to the wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, with the jobbing jockies; parching peelers, and the juries fill their stomachs selling judgments of the English law. [_Brandishing the bottle._] WIDOW QUIN. That’s a right toast, Sara Tansey. Now Christy. [_They drink with their arms linked, he drinking with his left hand, she with her right. As they are drinking, Pegeen Mike comes in with a milk can and stands aghast. They all spring away from Christy. He goes down left. Widow Quin remains seated._] PEGEEN. _angrily, to Sara._—What is it you’re wanting? SARA. _twisting her apron._—An ounce of tobacco. PEGEEN. Have you tuppence? SARA. I’ve forgotten my purse. PEGEEN. Then you’d best be getting it and not fooling us here. (_To the Widow Quin, with more elaborate scorn._) And what is it you’re wanting, Widow Quin? WIDOW QUIN. _insolently._—A penn’orth of starch.