] Aw hell! Nix on dat old
sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead,
too, yuh damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy,
see. Give us a rest. Nix on de loud noise. [With a cynical grin.]
Can't youse see I'm tryin' to t'ink?
ALL--[Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amused
mockery.] Think! [The chorused word has a brazen metallic quality
as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a
general uproar of hard, barking laughter.]
VOICES--Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank.
You gat headache, py yingo!
One thing about it--it rhymes with drink!
Ha, ha, ha!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
Drink, don't think!
[A whole chorus of voices has taken up this refrain, stamping on
the floor, pounding on the benches with fists.]
YANK--[Taking a gulp from his bottle--good-naturedly.] Aw right.
Can de noise. I got yuh de foist time. [The uproar subsides. A
very drunken sentimental tenor begins to sing:]
"Far away in Canada,
Far across the sea,
There's a lass who fondly waits
Making a home for me--"
YANK--[Fiercely contemptuous.] Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where
d'yuh get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh!
I'll knock yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get dat
tripe? Dis is home, see? What d'yuh want wit home? [Proudly.
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