TIMMY. On what is it you're gaping, Martin Doul?

MARTIN DOUL. There's a person walking above. . . . It's Molly
Byrne, I'm thinking, coming down with her can.

TIMMY. If she is itself let you not be idling this day, or
minding her at all, and let you hurry with them sticks, for I'll
want you in a short while to be blowing in the forge. [He throws
down pot-hooks.]

MARTIN DOUL -- [crying out.] -- Is it roasting me now you'd be?
(Turns back and sees pot-hooks; he takes them up.) Pot-hooks?
Is it over them you've been inside sneezing and sweating since
the dawn of day?

TIMMY -- [resting himself on anvil, with satisfaction.] -- I'm
making a power of things you do have when you're settling with a
wife, Martin Doul; for I heard tell last night the Saint'll be
passing again in a short while, and I'd have him wed Molly with
myself. . . . He'd do it, I've heard them say, for not a penny at
all.

MARTIN DOUL -- [lays down hooks and looks at him steadily.] --
Molly'll be saying great praises now to the Almighty God and He
giving her a fine, stout, hardy man the like of you.

TIMMY -- [uneasily.] -- And why wouldn't she, if she's a fine
woman itself?