(Looking
round at Mahon.) Whisht! He's listening. Wait now till you hear me taking
him easy and unravelling all. (She goes to Mahon.) And what way are you
feeling, mister? Are you in contentment now?
MAHON -- [slightly emotional from his drink.] -- I'm poorly only, for it's a
hard story the way I'm left to-day, when it was I did tend him from his hour
of birth, and he a dunce never reached his second book, the way he'd come from
school, many's the day, with his legs lamed under him, and he blackened with
his beatings like a tinker's ass. It's a hard story, I'm saying, the way some
do have their next and nighest raising up a hand of murder on them, and some
is lonesome getting their death with lamentation in the dead of night.
WIDOW QUIN -- [not knowing what to say.] -- To hear you talking so quiet,
who'd know you were the same fellow we seen pass to-day?
MAHON. I'm the same surely. The wrack and ruin of three score years; and
it's a terror to live that length, I tell you, and to have your sons going to
the dogs against you, and you wore out scolding them, and skelping them, and
God knows what.
PHILLY -- [to Jimmy.] -- He's not raving. (To Widow Quin.) Will you ask him
what kind was his son?
WIDOW QUIN -- [to Mahon, with a peculiar look.] -- Was your son that hit you a
lad of one year and 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.
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