Act II - Page 2

it again. And now tell me one thing before I let you go home to
bed. Which would you say this counthry was: hell or purgatory?

THE GRASSHOPPER. X.

THE MAN. Hell! Faith I'm afraid you're right. I wondher what you
and me did when we were alive to get sent here.

THE GRASSHOPPER [shrilly]. X.X.

THE MAN [nodding]. Well, as you say, it's a delicate subject; and
I won't press it on you. Now off widja.

THE GRASSHOPPER. X.X. [It springs away].

THE MAN [waving his stick] God speed you! [He walks away past the
stone towards the brow of the hill. Immediately a young laborer,
his face distorted with terror, slips round from behind the
stone.

THE LABORER [crossing himself repeatedly]. Oh glory be to God!
glory be to God! Oh Holy Mother an all the saints! Oh murdher!
murdher! [Beside himself, calling Fadher Keegan! Fadher Keegan]!

THE MAN [turning]. Who's there? What's that? [He comes back and
finds the laborer, who clasps his knees] Patsy Farrell! What are
you doing here?

PATSY. O for the love o God don't lave me here wi dhe
grasshopper. I hard it spakin to you. Don't let it do me any
harm, Father darlint.

KEEGAN. Get up, you foolish man, get up. Are you afraid of a poor
insect because I pretended it was talking to me?

PATSY. Oh, it was no pretending, Fadher dear. Didn't it give
three cheers n say it was a divil out o hell? Oh say you'll see
me safe home, Fadher; n put a blessin on me or somethin [he moans
with terror].

KEEGAN. What were you doin there, Patsy, listnin? Were you spyin
on me?

PATSY. No, Fadher: on me oath an soul I wasn't: I was waitn to
meet Masther Larry n carry his luggage from the car; n I fell
asleep on the grass; n you woke me talkin to the grasshopper; n I
hard its wicked little voice. Oh, d'ye think I'll die before the
year's out, Fadher?

KEEGAN. For shame, Patsy! Is that your religion, to be afraid of
a little deeshy grasshopper? Suppose it was a divil, what call
have you to fear it? If I could ketch it, I'd make you take it
home widja in your hat for a penance.

PATSY. Sure, if you won't let it harm me, I'm not afraid, your
riverence. [He gets up, a little reassured. He is a callow,
flaxen polled, smoothfaced, downy chinned lad, fully grown but
not yet fully filled out, with blue eyes and an instinctively
acquired air of helplessness and silliness, indicating, not his
real character, but a cunning developed by his constant dread of
a hostile dominance, which he habitually tries to disarm and
tempt into unmasking by pretending to be a much greater fool than
he really is. Englishmen think him half-witted, which is exactly
what he intends them to think. He is clad in corduroy