MAHON.
And he a poor fellow would get drunk on the smell of a pint. He'd a queer rotten stomach, I'm telling you, and when I gave him three pulls from my pipe a while since, he was taken with contortions till I had to send him in the ass-cart to the females' nurse.
WIDOW QUIN, clasping her hands.
Well, I never, till this day, heard tell of a man the like of that!
MAHON.
I'd take a mighty oath you didn't, surely, and wasn't he the laughing joke of every female woman where four baronies meet, the way the girls would stop their weeding if they seen him coming the road to let a roar at him, and call him the looney of Mahon's.
WIDOW QUIN.
I'd give the world and all to see the like of him. What kind was he?
MAHON.
A small low fellow.
WIDOW QUIN.
And dark?
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