MAHON. I’m the same surely. The wrack and ruin of three score years; and it’s a terror to live that length, I tell you, and to have your sons going to the dogs against you, and you wore out scolding them, and skelping them, and God knows what. PHILLY. _to Jimmy._—He’s not raving. (_To Widow Quin._) Will you ask him what kind was his son? WIDOW QUIN. _to Mahon, with a peculiar look._—Was your son that hit you a lad of one year and a score maybe, a great hand at racing and lepping and licking the world? MAHON. _turning on her with a roar of rage._—Didn’t you hear me say he was the fool of men, the way from this out he’ll know the orphan’s lot with old and young making game of him and they swearing, raging, kicking at him like a mangy cur. [_A great burst of cheering outside, someway off._] MAHON. _putting his hands to his ears._—What in the name of God do they want roaring below? WIDOW QUIN. _with the shade of a smile._—They’re cheering a young lad, the champion Playboy of the Western World. [_More cheering._] MAHON. _going to window._—It’d split my heart to hear them, and I with pulses in my brain-pan for a week gone by. Is it racing they are? JIMMY. _looking from door._—It is then. They are mounting him for the mule race will be run upon the sands. That’s the playboy on the winkered mule. MAHON. _puzzled._—That lad, is it? If you said it was a fool he was, I’d have laid a mighty oath he was the likeness of my wandering son (_uneasily, putting his hand to his head._) Faith, I’m thinking I’ll go walking for to view the race. WIDOW QUIN. _stopping him, sharply._—You will not. You’d best take the road to Belmullet, and not be dilly-dallying in this place where there isn’t a spot you could sleep. PHILLY. _coming forward._—Don’t mind her. Mount there on the bench and you’ll have a view of the whole. They’re hurrying before the tide will rise, and it’d be near over if you went down the pathway through the crags below. MAHON. _mounts on bench, Widow Quin beside him._—That’s a right view again the edge of the sea. They’re coming now from the point. He’s leading. Who is he at all? WIDOW QUIN. He’s the champion of the world, I tell you, and there isn’t a hop’orth isn’t falling lucky to his hands to-day. PHILLY. _looking out, interested in the race._—Look at that. They’re pressing him now. JIMMY. He’ll win it yet. PHILLY. Take your time, Jimmy Farrell. It’s too soon to say. WIDOW QUIN. _shouting._—Watch him taking the gate. There’s riding. JIMMY. _cheering._—More power to the young lad! MAHON. He’s passing the third. JIMMY. He’ll lick them yet! WIDOW QUIN. He’d lick them if he was running races with a score itself. MAHON. Look at the mule he has, kicking the stars. WIDOW QUIN. There was a lep! (_catching hold of Mahon in her excitement._) He’s fallen! He’s mounted again! Faith, he’s passing them all! JIMMY. Look at him skelping her! PHILLY. And the mountain girls hooshing him on!