SHAWN, in terror.
Keep a good hold, Philly. Be wary, for the love of God. For I'm thinking he would liefest wreak his pains on me.
CHRISTY, almost gaily.
If I do lay my hands on you, it's the way you'll be at the fall of night, hanging as a scarecrow for the fowls of hell. Ah, you'll have a gallous jaunt, I'm saying, coaching out through Limbo with my father's ghost.
SHAWN, to Pegeen.
Make haste, will you? Oh, isn't he a holy terror, and isn't it true for Father Reilly, that all drink's a curse that has the lot of you so shaky and uncertain now?
CHRISTY.
If I can wring a neck among you, I'll have a royal judgment looking on the trembling jury in the courts of law. And won't there be crying out in Mayo the day I'm stretched upon the rope, with ladies in their silks and satins snivelling in their lacy kerchiefs, and they rhyming songs and ballads on the terror of my fate?
He squirms round on the floor and bites Shawn's leg.
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