CHRISTY. I did not, then; but there I was, digging and digging, and "You
squinting idiot," says he, "let you walk down now and tell the priest you'll
wed the Widow Casey in a score of days."

WIDOW QUIN. And what kind was she?

CHRISTY -- [with horror.] -- A walking terror from beyond the hills, and she
two score and five years, and two hundredweights and five pounds in the
weighing scales, with a limping leg on her, and a blinded eye, and she a woman
of noted misbehaviour with the old and young.

GIRLS -- [clustering round him, serving him.] -- Glory be.

WIDOW QUIN. And what did he want driving you to wed with her? [She takes a
bit of the chicken.]

CHRISTY -- [eating with growing satisfaction.] He was letting on I was
wanting a protector from the harshness of the world, and he without a thought
the whole while but how he'd have her hut to live in and her gold to drink.

WIDOW QUIN. There's maybe worse than a dry hearth and a widow woman and your
glass at night. So you hit him then?

CHRISTY -- [getting almost excited.] -- I did not. "I won't wed her," says I,
"when all know she did suckle me for six weeks when I came into the world, and
she a hag this day with a tongue on her has the crows and seabirds scattered,
the way they wouldn't cast a shadow on her garden with the dread of her
curse."

WIDOW QUIN -- [teasingly.] That one should be right company.