VOICES--[With a great hard pride in them.]
Righto!
A man's job!
Talk is cheap, Long.
He never could hold up his end.
Divil take him!
Yank's right. We make it go.
Py Gott, Yank say right ting!
We don't need noone cryin' over us.
Makin' speeches.
Throw him out!
Yellow!
Chuck him overboard!
I'll break his jaw for him!
[They crowd around Long threateningly.]
YANK--[Half good-natured again--contemptuously.] Aw, take it easy.
Leave him alone. He ain't woith a punch. Drink up. Here's how,
whoever owns dis. [He takes a long swallow from his bottle. All
drink with him. In a flash all is hilarious amiability again,
back-slapping, loud talk, etc.]
PADDY--[Who has been sitting in a blinking, melancholy daze--
suddenly cries out in a voice full of old sorrow.] We belong to
this, you're saying? We make the ship to go, you're saying? Yerra
then, that Almighty God have pity on us! [His voice runs into the
wail of a keen, he rocks back and forth on his bench. The men
stare at him, startled and impressed in spite of themselves.] Oh,
to be back in the fine days of my youth, ochone! Oh, there was
fine beautiful ships them days--clippers wid tall masts touching
the sky--fine strong men in them--men that was sons of the sea as
if 'twas the mother that bore them.
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