drink.

JOHNNY—[With a grin.] You got a half-snootful now. Where'd you get it?

CHRIS—[Grinning.] Oder fallar on oder barge—Irish fallar—he gat bottle vhiskey and we drank it, yust us two. Dot vhiskey gat kick, by yingo! Ay yust come ashore. Give us drink, Larry. Ay vas little drunk, not much. Yust feel good. [He laughs and commences to sing in a nasal, high-pitched quaver.]

"My Yosephine, come board de ship. Long time Ay vait for you.
De moon, she shi-i-i-ine. She looka yust like you.
Tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee."

[To the accompaniment of this last he waves his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra.]

JOHNNY—[With a laugh.] Same old Yosie, eh, Chris?

CHRIS—You don't know good song when you hear him. Italian fallar on oder barge, he learn me dat. Give us drink. [He throws change on the bar.]

LARRY—[With a professional air.] What's your pleasure, gentlemen?

JOHNNY—Small beer, Larry.

CHRIS—Vhiskey—Number Two.

LARRY—[As he gets their drinks.] I'll take a cigar on you.

CHRIS—[Lifting his glass.] Skoal! [He drinks.]

JOHNNY—Drink hearty.

CHRIS—[Immediately.] Have oder drink.

JOHNNY—No. Some other time. Got to go home now. So you've just landed? Where are you in from this time?

CHRIS—Norfolk. Ve make slow voyage—dirty vedder—yust fog, fog, fog, all bloody time! [There is an insistent ring from the doorbell at the family entrance in the back room. Chris gives a start—hurriedly.] Ay go open, Larry. Ay forgat. It vas Marthy. She come with me. [He goes into the back room.]

LARRY—[With a chuckle.] He's still got that same cow livin' with him, the old fool!

JOHNNY—[With a grin.] A sport, Chris is. Well, I'll beat it home. S'long. [He goes to the street door.]

LARRY—So long, boss.

JOHNNY—Oh—don't forget to give him his letter.

LARRY—I won't. [JOHNNY goes out. In the meantime, CHRIS has opened the family entrance door, admitting MARTHY. She might be forty or fifty. Her jowly, mottled face, with its thick red nose, is streaked with interlacing purple veins. Her thick, gray hair is piled anyhow in a greasy mop on top of her round head. Her figure is flabby and fat; her breath comes in wheezy gasps; she speaks in a loud, mannish voice, punctuated by explosions of hoarse laughter. But there still twinkles in her blood-shot blue eyes a youthful lust for life which hard usage has failed to stifle, a sense of humor mocking, but good-tempered. She wears a man's cap, double-breasted man's jacket, and a grimy, calico skirt. Her bare feet are encased in a man's brogans several sizes too large for her, which gives her a shuffling, wobbly gait.]

MARTHY—[Grumblingly.] What yuh tryin' to do, Dutchy—keep me standin' out there all day? [She comes forward and sits at the table in the right corner, front.]

CHRIS—[Mollifyingly.] Ay'm sorry, Marthy. Ay talk to Yohnny. Ay forgat. What you goin' take for drink?

MARTHY—[Appeased.] Gimme a scoop of lager an' ale.

CHRIS—Ay go bring him back. [He returns to the bar.] Lager and ale for Marthy, Larry. Vhiskey for me. [He throws change on the bar.]

LARRY—Right you are. [Then remembering, he takes the letter from in back of the bar.] Here's a letter for you—from St. Paul, Minnesota—and a lady's writin'. [He grins.]

CHRIS—[Quickly—taking it.] Oh, den it come from my daughter, Anna. She live dere. [He turns the letter over in his hands uncertainly.] Ay don't gat letter from Anna—must be a year.

LARRY—[Jokingly.] That's a fine fairy tale to be tellin'—your daughter! Sure I'll bet it's some bum.

CHRIS—[Soberly.] No. Dis come from Anna. [Engrossed by the letter in his hand—uncertainly.] By golly, Ay tank Ay'm too drunk for read dis letter from Anna. Ay tank Ay sat down for a minute. You bring drinks in back room, Larry. [He goes into the room on right.]

MARTHY—[Angrily.] Where's my lager an' ale, yuh big stiff?

CHRIS—[Preoccupied.] Larry bring him. [He sits down opposite her. LARRY brings in the drinks and sets them on the table. He and MARTHY exchange nods of recognition. LARRY stands looking at CHRIS curiously. MARTHY takes a long draught of her schooner and heaves a huge sigh of satisfaction, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. CHRIS stares at the letter for a moment—slowly opens it, and, squinting his eyes, commences to read laboriously, his lips moving as he spells out the words. As he reads his face lights up with an expression of mingled joy and bewilderment.]

LARRY—Good news?

MARTHY—[Her curiosity also aroused.] What's that yuh got—a letter, fur Gawd's sake?

CHRIS—[Pauses for a moment, after finishing the letter, as if to let the news sink in—then suddenly pounds his fist on the table with happy excitement.] Py yiminy! Yust tank, Anna say she's comin' here right avay! She gat sick on yob in St. Paul, she say. It's short letter, don't tal me much more'n dat. [Beaming.] Py golly, dat's good news all at one time for ole fallar! [Then turning to MARTHY, rather shamefacedly.] You know, Marthy, Ay've tole you Ay don't see my Anna since she vas little gel in Sveden five year ole.

MARTHY—How old'll she be now?

CHRIS—She must be—lat me see—she must be twenty year ole, py Yo!

LARRY—[Surprised.] You've not seen her in fifteen years?

CHRIS—[Suddenly growing somber—in a low tone.] No. Ven she vas little gel, Ay vas bo'sun on vindjammer. Ay never gat home only few time dem year. Ay'm fool sailor fallar. My voman—Anna's mother—she gat tired vait all time Sveden for me ven Ay don't never come. She come dis country, bring Anna, dey go out Minnesota, live with her cousins on farm. Den ven her mo'der die ven Ay vas on voyage, Ay tank it's better dem cousins keep Anna. Ay tank it's better Anna live on farm, den she don't know dat ole davil, sea, she don't know fader like me.

LARRY—[With a wink at MARTHY.] This girl, now, 'll be marryin' a sailor herself, likely. It's in the blood.

CHRIS—[Suddenly springing to his feet and smashing his fist on the table in a rage.] No, py God! She don't do dat!

MARTHY—[Grasping her schooner hastily—angrily.] Hey, look out, yuh nut! Wanta spill my suds for me?

LARRY—[Amazed.] Oho, what's up with you? Ain't you a sailor yourself now, and always been?

CHRIS—[Slowly.] Dat's yust vhy Ay say it. [Forcing a smile.] Sailor vas all right fallar, but not for marry gel. No. Ay know dat. Anna's mo'der, she know it, too.

LARRY—[As CHRIS remains sunk in gloomy reflection.] When is your daughter comin'? Soon?

CHRIS—[Roused.] Py yiminy, Ay forgat. [Reads through the letter hurriedly.] She say she come right avay, dat's all.

LARRY—She'll maybe be comin' here to look for you, I s'pose. [He returns to the bar, whistling. Left alone with MARTHY, who stares at him with a twinkle of malicious humor in her eyes, CHRIS suddenly becomes desperately ill-at-ease. He fidgets, then gets up hurriedly.]

CHRIS—Ay gat speak with Larry. Ay be right back. [Mollifyingly.] Ay bring you oder drink.

MARTHY—[Emptying her glass.] Sure. That's me. [As he retreats with the glass she guffaws after him derisively.]

CHRIS—[To LARRY in an alarmed