WIDOW QUIN.
Not working at all?
MAHON.
The divil a work, or if he did itself, you'd see him raising up a haystack like the stalk of a rush, or driving our last cow till he broke her leg at the hip, and when he wasn't at that he'd be fooling over little birds he had—finches and felts—or making mugs at his own self in the bit of a glass we had hung on the wall.
WIDOW QUIN, looking at Christy.
What way was he so foolish? It was running wild after the girls maybe?
MAHON, with a shout of derision.
Running wild, is it? If he seen a red petticoat coming swinging over the hill, he'd be off to hide in the sticks, and you'd see him shooting out his sheep's eyes between the little twigs and the leaves, and his two ears rising like a hare looking out through a gap. Girls, indeed!
WIDOW QUIN.
It was drink maybe?
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