The Playboy of the
face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the flags of hell.
PEGEEN.
It's the truth they're saying, and if I'd that lad in the house, I wouldn't be fearing the looséd kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead.
CHRISTY, swelling with surprise and triumph.
Well, glory be to God!
MICHAEL, with deference.
Would you think well to stop here and be pot-boy, mister honey, if we gave you good wages, and didn't destroy you with the weight of work.
SHAWN, coming forward uneasily.
That'd be a queer kind to bring into a decent, quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike.
PEGEEN, very sharply.
Will you whisht? Who's speaking to you?
SHAWN, retreating.
A bloody-handed murderer the like of . . .
24
