a score maybe, a great hand at racing and lepping and licking the world?
MAHON, turning on her with a roar of rage.
Didn't you hear me say he was the fool of men, the way from this out he'll know the orphan's lot, with old and young making game of him, and they swearing, raging, kicking at him like a mangy cur.
A great burst of cheering outside, some way off.
MAHON, putting his hands to his ears.
What in the name of God do they want roaring below?
WIDOW QUIN, with the shade of a smile.
They're cheering a young lad, the champion Playboy of the Western World. (More cheering.)
MAHON. going to window.
It'd split my heart to hear them, and I with pulses in my brain-pan for a week gone by. Is it racing they are?
JIMMY, looking from door.
It is, then. They are mounting him for the
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