WIDOW QUIN. If you’re a wonder itself, you’d best be hasty, for them lads caught a maniac one time and pelted the poor creature till he ran out, raving and foaming, and was drowned in the sea. MAHON. _with philosophy._—It’s true mankind is the divil when your head’s astray. Let me out now and I’ll slip down the boreen, and not see them so. WIDOW QUIN. _showing him out._—That’s it. Run to the right, and not a one will see. [_He runs off._] PHILLY. _wisely._—You’re at some gaming, Widow Quin; but I’ll walk after him and give him his dinner and a time to rest, and I’ll see then if he’s raving or as sane as you. WIDOW QUIN. _annoyed._—If you go near that lad, let you be wary of your head, I’m saying. Didn’t you hear him telling he was crazed at times? PHILLY. I heard him telling a power; and I’m thinking we’ll have right sport, before night will fall. [_He goes out._] JIMMY. Well, Philly’s a conceited and foolish man. How could that madman have his senses and his brain-pan slit? I’ll go after them and see him turn on Philly now. [_He goes; Widow Quin hides poteen behind counter. Then hubbub outside._] VOICES. There you are! Good jumper! Grand lepper! Darlint boy! He’s the racer! Bear him on, will you! [_Christy comes in, in Jockey’s dress, with Pegeen Mike, Sara, and other girls and men._] PEGEEN. _to crowd._—Go on now and don’t destroy him and he drenching with sweat. Go along, I’m saying, and have your tug-of-warring till he’s dried his skin. CROWD. Here’s his prizes! A bagpipes! A fiddle was played by a poet in the years gone by! A flat and three-thorned blackthorn would lick the scholars out of Dublin town! CHRISTY. _taking prizes from the men._—Thank you kindly, the lot of you. But you’d say it was little only I did this day if you’d seen me a while since striking my one single blow. TOWN CRIER. _outside, ringing a bell._—Take notice, last event of this day! Tug-of-warring on the green below! Come on, the lot of you! Great achievements for all Mayo men! PEGEEN. Go on, and leave him for to rest and dry. Go on, I tell you, for he’ll do no more. (_She hustles crowd out; Widow Quin following them._) MEN. _going._—Come on then. Good luck for the while! PEGEEN. _radiantly, wiping his face with her shawl._—Well, you’re the lad, and you’ll have great times from this out when you could win that wealth of prizes, and you sweating in the heat of noon! CHRISTY. _looking at her with delight._—I’ll have great times if I win the crowning prize I’m seeking now, and that’s your promise that you’ll wed me in a fortnight, when our banns is called. PEGEEN. _backing away from him._—You’ve right daring to go ask me that, when all knows you’ll be starting to some girl in your own townland, when your father’s rotten in four months, or five.