below, racing, lepping, dancing, and the Lord knows what! He's right luck, I'm telling you.
PHILLY.
If he has, he'll be rightly hobbled yet, and he not able to say ten words without making a brag of the way he killed his father, and the great blow he hit with the loy.
JIMMY.
A man can't hang by his own informing, and his father should be rotten by now.
Old Mahon passes window slowly.
PHILLY.
Supposing a man's digging spuds in that field with a long spade, and supposing he flings up the two halves of that skull, what'll be said then in the papers and the courts of law?
JIMMY.
They'd say it was an old Dane, maybe, was drowned in the flood. (Old Mahon comes in and sits down near door listening.) Did you never hear tell of the skulls they have in the city of Dublin, ranged out like blue jugs in a cabin of Connaught?
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