Jellon Lamb: Forgive me, sir, but I've been stuck here with no one but this sorry sack of Hibernian pig shit for conversation. Poor, poor Dan O'Reilly. Sit, sir. Drink with me.
[Charlie ****s his gun and points it to Lamb]
Charlie Burns: One more crack about the Irish, Mr. Lamb, and I'll shoot you. Am I clear?
Jellon Lamb: Oh, as the waters of Ennis, sir. Let us drink, then, to the Irish. No finer race of men have ever... peeled a potato.
[Charlie ****s his gun again and points it to Lamb]
Charlie Burns: Do you pray, Mr. Lamb?
Jellon Lamb: Good Lord, son. No, I do not.
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