whisper.] Py yingo, Ay gat gat Marthy shore off barge before Anna come! Anna raise hell if she find dat out. Marthy raise hell, too, for go, py golly!

LARRY—[With a chuckle.] Serve ye right, ye old divil—havin' a woman at your age!

CHRIS—[Scratching his head in a quandary.] You tal me lie for tal Marthy, Larry, so's she gat off barge quick.

LARRY—She knows your daughter's comin'. Tell her to get the hell out of it.

CHRIS—No. Ay don't like make her feel bad.

LARRY—You're an old mush! Keep your girl away from the barge, then. She'll likely want to stay ashore anyway. [Curiously.] What does she work at, your Anna?

CHRIS—She stay on dem cousins' farm 'till two year ago. Dan she gat yob nurse gel in St. Paul. [Then shaking his head resolutely.] But Ay don't vant for her gat yob now. Ay vant for her stay with me.

LARRY—[Scornfully.] On a coal barge! She'll not like that, I'm thinkin'.

MARTHY—[Shouts from next room.] Don't I get that bucket o' suds, Dutchy?

CHRIS—[Startled—in apprehensive confusion.] Yes, Ay come, Marthy.

LARRY—[Drawing the lager and ale, hands it to CHRIS—laughing.] Now you're in for it! You'd better tell her straight to get out!

CHRIS—[Shaking in his boots.] Py golly. [He takes her drink in to MARTHY and sits down at the table. She sips it in silence. LARRY moves quietly close to the partition to listen, grinning with expectation. CHRIS seems on the verge of speaking, hesitates, gulps down his whiskey desperately as if seeking for courage. He attempts to whistle a few bars of "Yosephine" with careless bravado, but the whistle peters out futilely. MARTHY stares at him keenly, taking in his embarrassment with a malicious twinkle of amusement in her eye. CHRIS clears his throat.] Marthy—

MARTHY—[Aggressively.] Wha's that? [Then, pretending to fly into a rage, her eyes enjoying CHRIS' misery.] I'm wise to what's in back of your nut, Dutchy. Yuh want to git rid o' me, huh?—now she's comin'. Gimme the bum's rush ashore, huh? Lemme tell yuh, Dutchy, there ain't a square-head workin' on a boat man enough to git away with that. Don't start nothin' yuh can't finish!

CHRIS—[Miserably.] Ay don't start nutting, Marthy.

MARTHY—[Glares at him for a second—then cannot control a burst of laughter.] Ho-ho! Yuh're a scream, Square-head—an honest-ter-Gawd knockout! Ho-ho! [She wheezes, panting for breath.]

CHRIS—[With childish pique.] Ay don't see nutting for laugh at.

MARTHY—Take a slant in the mirror and yuh'll see. Ho-ho! [Recovering from her mirth—chuckling, scornfully.] A square-head tryin' to kid Marthy Owen at this late day!—after me campin' with barge men the last twenty years. I'm wise to the game, up, down, and sideways. I ain't been born and dragged up on the water front for nothin'. Think I'd make trouble, huh? Not me! I'll pack up me duds an' beat it. I'm quittin' yuh, get me? I'm tellin' yuh I'm sick of stickin' with yuh, and I'm leavin' yuh flat, see? There's plenty of other guys on other barges waitin' for me. Always was, I always found. [She claps the astonished CHRIS on the back.] So cheer up, Dutchy! I'll be offen the barge before she comes. You'll be rid o' me for good—and me o' you—good riddance for both of us. Ho-ho!

CHRIS—[Seriously.] Ay don' tank dat. You vas good gel, Marthy.

MARTHY—[Grinning.] Good girl? Aw, can the bull! Well, yuh treated me square, yuhself. So it's fifty-fifty. Nobody's sore at nobody. We're still good frien's, huh? [LARRY returns to bar.]

CHRIS—[Beaming now that he sees his troubles disappearing.] Yes, py golly.

MARTHY—That's the talkin'! In all my time I tried never to split with a guy with no hard feelin's. But what was yuh so scared about—that I'd kick up a row? That ain't Marthy's way. [Scornfully.] Think I'd break my heart to lose yuh? Commit suicide, huh? Ho-ho! Gawd! The world's full o' men if that's all I'd worry about! [Then with a grin, after emptying her glass.] Blow me to another scoop, huh? I'll drink your kid's health for yuh.

CHRIS—[Eagerly.] Sure tang. Ay go gat him. [He takes the two glasses into the bar.] Oder drink. Same for both.

LARRY—[Getting the drinks and putting them on the bar.] She's not such a bad lot, that one.

CHRIS—[Jovially.] She's good gel, Ay tal you! Py golly, Ay calabrate now! Give me vhiskey here at bar, too. [He puts down money. LARRY serves him.] You have drink, Larry.

LARRY—[Virtuously.] You know I never touch it.

CHRIS—You don't know what you miss. Skoal! [He drinks—then begins to sing loudly.]

"My Yosephine, come board de ship—"

[He picks up the drinks for MARTHY and himself and walks unsteadily into the back room, singing.]

"De moon, she shi-i-i-ine. She looks yust like you.
Tche-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee, tchee-tchee."

MARTHY—[Grinning, hands to ears.] Gawd!

CHRIS—[Sitting down.] Ay'm good singer, yes? Ve drink, eh? Skoal! Ay calabrate! [He drinks.] Ay calabrate 'cause Anna's coming home. You know, Marthy, Ay never write for her to come, 'cause Ay tank Ay'm no good for her. But all time Ay hope like hell some day she vant for see me and den she come. And dat's vay it happen now, py yiminy! [His face beaming.] What you tank she look like, Marthy? Ay bet you she's fine, good, strong gel, pooty like hell! Living on farm made her like dat. And Ay bet you some day she marry good, steady land fallar here in East, have home all her own, have kits—and dan Ay'm ole grandfader, py golly! And Ay go visit dem every time Ay gat in port near! [Bursting with joy.] By yiminy crickens, Ay calabrate dat! [Shouts.] Bring oder drink, Larry! [He smashes his fist on the table with a bang.]

LARRY—[Coming in from bar—irritably.] Easy there! Don't be breakin' the table, you old goat!

CHRIS—[By way of reply, grins foolishly and begins to sing.] "My Yosephine comes board de ship—"

MARTHY—[Touching CHRIS' arm persuasively.] You're soused to the ears, Dutchy. Go out and put a feed into you. It'll sober you up. [Then as CHRIS shakes his head obstinately.] Listen, yuh old nut! Yuh don't know what time your kid's liable to show up. Yuh want to be sober when she comes, don't yuh?

CHRIS—[Aroused—gets unsteadily to his feet.] Py golly, yes.

LARRY—That's good sense for you. A good beef stew'll fix you. Go round the corner.

CHRIS—All right. Ay be back soon, Marthy. [CHRIS goes through the bar and out the street door.]

LARRY—He'll come round all right with some grub in him.

MARTHY—Sure. [LARRY goes back to the bar and resumes his newspaper. MARTHY sips what is left of her schooner reflectively. There is the ring of the family entrance bell. LARRY comes to the door and opens it a trifle—then, with a puzzled expression, pulls it wide. ANNA CHRISTOPHERSON enters. She is a tall, blond, fully-developed girl of twenty, handsome after a large, Viking-daughter fashion but now run down in health and plainly showing all the outward evidences of belonging to the world's oldest profession. Her youthful face is already hard and cynical beneath its layer of make-up. Her clothes are the tawdry finery of peasant stock turned prostitute. She comes and sinks wearily in a chair by the table, left front.]

ANNA—Gimme a whiskey—ginger ale on the side. [Then, as LARRY turns to go, forcing a winning smile at him.] And don't be stingy, baby.