CHRISTY. I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and never let a grunt or groan from him at all. MICHAEL. _making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy’s glass._—And what way weren’t you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then? CHRISTY. _considering._—Aye. I buried him then. Wasn’t I digging spuds in the field? MICHAEL. And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that you’re out? CHRISTY. _shaking his head._—Never a one of them, and I walking forward facing hog, dog, or divil on the highway of the road. PHILLY. _nodding wisely._—It’s only with a common week-day kind of a murderer them lads would be trusting their carcase, and that man should be a great terror when his temper’s roused. MICHAEL. He should then. (_To Christy._) And where was it, mister honey, that you did the deed? CHRISTY. _looking at him with suspicion._—Oh, a distant place, master of the house, a windy corner of high, distant hills. PHILLY. _nodding with approval._—He’s a close man, and he’s right, surely. PEGEEN. That’d be a lad with the sense of Solomon to have for a pot-boy, Michael James, if it’s the truth you’re seeking one at all. PHILLY. The peelers is fearing him, and if you’d that lad in the house there isn’t one of them would come smelling around if the dogs itself were lapping poteen from the dungpit of the yard. JIMMY. Bravery’s a treasure in a lonesome place, and a lad would kill his father, I’m thinking, would face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the flags of hell. PEGEEN. It’s the truth they’re saying, and if I’d that lad in the house, I wouldn’t be fearing the loosed kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead. CHRISTY. _swelling with surprise and triumph._—Well, glory be to God! MICHAEL. _with deference._—Would you think well to stop here and be pot-boy, mister honey, if we gave you good wages, and didn’t destroy you with the weight of work? SHAWN. _coming forward uneasily._—That’d be a queer kind to bring into a decent quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike. PEGEEN. _very sharply._—Will you whisht? Who’s speaking to you? SHAWN. _retreating._—A bloody-handed murderer the like of.... PEGEEN. _snapping at him._—Whisht I am saying; we’ll take no fooling from your like at all. (_To Christy with a honeyed voice._) And you, young fellow, you’d have a right to stop, I’m thinking, for we’d do our all and utmost to content your needs. CHRISTY. _overcome with wonder._—And I’d be safe in this place from the searching law? MICHAEL. You would, surely. If they’re not fearing you, itself, the peelers in this place is decent droughty poor fellows, wouldn’t touch a cur dog and not give warning in the dead of night. PEGEEN. _very kindly and persuasively._—Let you stop a short while anyhow. Aren’t you destroyed walking with your feet in bleeding blisters, and your whole skin needing washing like a Wicklow sheep.