WIDOW QUIN -- [stiffly.] What kind was he?

MAHON. An ugly young streeler with a murderous gob on him, and a little
switch in his hand. I met a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of
night.

WIDOW QUIN. There's harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo
boat. For what is it you're wanting him, my poor man?

MAHON. I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of a
loy. (He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages and
plaster, with some pride.) It was he did that, and amn't I a great wonder to
think I've traced him ten days with that rent in my crown?

WIDOW QUIN -- [taking his head in both hands and examining it with extreme
delight.] -- That was a great blow. And who hit you? A robber maybe?

MAHON. It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything else,
but a dirty, stuttering lout.

WIDOW -- [letting go his skull and wiping her hands in her apron.] -- You'd
best be wary of a mortified scalp, I think they call it, lepping around with
that wound in the splendour of the sun. It was a bad blow surely, and you
should have vexed him fearful to make him strike that gash in his da.

MAHON. Is it me?

WIDOW QUIN -- [amusing herself.] -- Aye. And isn't it a great shame when the
old and hardened do torment the young?