his face is clean-shaven, his expression vehement. His dress is old-fashioned. He wears knee-breeches, a frieze coat rather long, a linen shirt with a little linen collar and a black string for bow. He carries a slick and moves about restlessly)
ANNE
Had Maire any talk of going to the mill, father?
CONN
I heard nothing of it.
ANNE I hope she'll mind of it. We must get the meal there, and not be going to the shop so often.
CONN
I suppose we must.
He moves about restlessly.
ANNE
And I was just thinking that one of us ought to go to Arvach on
Tuesday, and get the things there.
CONN
The mean, odious creatures!
Anne is startled. She turns from dresser.
ANNE
What are you thinking of, father?
CONN That den of robbers. Well, well, I'm finished with them now; but I'm a proud man, and a passionate man, and I'll be even with them yet.
ANNE
There's no comfort in going into rough places.
CONN
You know nothing at all about it. Were the men in yet?
ANNE
James Moynihan was here, because he had to go away early; but
Brian MacConnell is outside still. Father, you were home late two
nights this week.
CONN And is a man to have no life to himself? But sure you know nothing at all about it. I'm going out now to give Brian MacConnell a hand.
ANNE
It's hardly worth while going out now.
CONN There's still light enough to do a bit of mowing, and you ought to know that it isn't right to neglect the boy that's come to do a day's work with you. (Going to the door) Many's the day I put in with the scythe in Ireland, and in England too; I did more than stroll with the fiddle, and I saw more places than where fiddling brought me. (Brian MacConnell comes to the door) I was just going out to you, Brian. I was telling the girl here that it's not right to neglect the boy that's giving you a day's work out of his own goodness.
BRIAN
I'm only coming in for a light.
CONN
As you're here now, rest yourself.
Brian MacConnell comes in, and goes over to the hearth. He is dark and good-looking, and has something reckless in his look. He wears corduroy trousers, and a shirt loose at the neck. Anne comes to Brian. Conn stands at entrance, his back turned.
BRIAN (lighting his pipe with a coal) When do you expect Maire back?
ANNE
She'll be here soon. Shell give you a call if you're outside,
BRIAN
How is it you couldn't keep James Moynihan?
ANNE
It's because you didn't say the good word for me, I must think.
Be sure you praise me the next time you're working together.
BRIAN
Will you do as much for me?
ANNE Indeed, I will, Brian. Myself and another are making a devotion to Saint Anthony.
BRIAN
And what would that be for?
ANNE
That the Saint might send us good comrades.
BRIAN
I thought it was Saint Joseph did that for the girls.
ANNE Sure we couldn't be asking the like from him. We couldn't talk to Saint Joseph that way. We want a nice young saint to be looking at.
Conn turns from the door.
CONN (bitterly) It'll be a poor season, Brian MacConnell.
BRIAN
The season's not so bad, after all.
CONN God help them that are depending on the land and the weather for the bit they put into their heads. It's no wonder that the people here are the sort they are, harassed, anxious people.
ANNE The people here mind their own business, and they're a friendly people besides.
CONN People that would leave the best fiddler at the fair to go and look at a bullock.
ANNE (to Brian) He's not satisfied to have this shelter, Brian.
CONN (to Brian) I'm saying, Brian, that her mother had this shelter, and she left it to go the roads with myself.
ANNE That God may rest my mother. It's a pity she never lived to come back to the place. But we ought to be praising grandmother night and day, for leaving this place to Maire.
CONN
Your grandmother did that as she did everything else.
ANNE (to Brian) Now, Brian, what would you do with a man that would say the like?
Anne goes outside.
CONN (to Brian) It's small blame to the girl here for thinking something of the place; but I saw the time, Brian MacConnell, when I could make more playing at one fair than working a whole season in this bit of a place.
BRIAN
Girls like the shelter, Conn.
CONN Ay, but the road for the fiddler. I'm five years settled here, and I come to be as well known as the begging ass, and there is as much thought about me. Fiddling, let me tell you, isn't like a boy's whistling. It can't be kept up on nothing.
BRIAN
I understand that, Conn.
CONN I'm getting that I can't stand the talk you hear in houses, wars and Parliaments, and the devil knows what ramais.
BRIAN
There's still a welcome for the man of art, somewhere.
CONN
That somewhere's getting further and further away, Brian.
BRIAN
You were not in the town last night?
CONN
I was not, Brian. God help me, I spent the night my lone.
BRIAN
There's Sligomen in the town.
CONN Is there, now? It would be like our times to play for them. (Anne comes in with some peat) Anne, would you bring me down my spectacles? They're in the room, daughter. (Anne goes to room. Conn turns to Brian eagerly) I suppose the Sligomen will be in Flynn's.
BRIAN
They were there last night.
CONN Listen, Brian, I've a reason for not going to Flynn's. Would you believe it, Brian, Flynn spoke to me about the few shillings I owe him?
BRIAN That was shabby of him. He got a lot out of you in the way of playing.
CONN It's just like them. Besides, Maire keeps us tight enough, and I often have to take treats from the men. They're drovers and rambling labourers and the like, though, as you say, they've the song and music, and the proper talk. Listen, Brian, could you leave a few shillings on the dresser for me?
BRIAN