PHILLY. Well, that lad’s a puzzle—the world. JIMMY. He’d beat Dan Davies’ circus, or the holy missioners making sermons on the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly. PHILLY. Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or shilling coins itself? CHRISTY. I did not, mister, not sixpence nor a farthing coin. JIMMY. Did you marry three wives maybe? I’m told there’s a sprinkling have done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north. CHRISTY. _shyly._—I never married with one, let alone with a couple or three. PHILLY. Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, was judged to be hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east, young fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the freedom of the Boers? CHRISTY. I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week. PEGEEN. _coming from counter._—He’s done nothing, so. (_To Christy._) If you didn’t commit murder or a bad, nasty thing, or false coining, or robbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn’t anything that would be worth your troubling for to run from now. You did nothing at all. CHRISTY. _his feelings hurt._—That’s an unkindly thing to be saying to a poor orphaned traveller, has a prison behind him, and hanging before, and hell’s gap gaping below. PEGEEN. _with a sign to the men to be quiet._—You’re only saying it. You did nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn’t slit the windpipe of a screeching sow. CHRISTY. _offended._—You’re not speaking the truth. PEGEEN. _in mock rage._—Not speaking the truth, is it? Would you have me knock the head of you with the butt of the broom? CHRISTY. _twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror._—Don’t strike me. I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like of that. PEGEEN. _with blank amazement._—Is it killed your father? CHRISTY. _subsiding._—With the help of God I did surely, and that the Holy Immaculate Mother may intercede for his soul. PHILLY. _retreating with Jimmy._—There’s a daring fellow. JIMMY. Oh, glory be to God! MICHAEL. _with great respect._—That was a hanging crime, mister honey. You should have had good reason for doing the like of that. CHRISTY. _in a very reasonable tone._—He was a dirty man, God forgive him, and he getting old and crusty, the way I couldn’t put up with him at all. PEGEEN. And you shot him dead? CHRISTY. _shaking his head._—I never used weapons. I’ve no license, and I’m a law-fearing man. MICHAEL. It was with a hilted knife maybe? I’m told, in the big world it’s bloody knives they use. CHRISTY. _loudly, scandalized._—Do you take me for a slaughter-boy? PEGEEN. You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the license, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it had life?