a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of night.
WIDOW QUIN.
There's harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo boat. For what is it you're wanting him, my poor man?
MAHON.
I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of a loy. (He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages and plaster, with some pride.) It was he did that, and amn't I a great wonder to think I've traced him ten days with that rent in my crown.
WIDOW QUIN, taking his head in both hands and examining it with extreme delight.
That was a great blow. And who hit you? A robber maybe?
MAHON.
It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything else, but a dirty, stuttering lout.
WIDOW QUIN, letting go his skull and wiping her hands in her apron.
You'd best be wary of a mortified scalp, I think
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