PADDY--[From somewhere in the line--plaintively.] Yerra, will this
divil's own watch nivir end? Me back is broke. I'm destroyed
entirely.
YANK--[From the center of the line--with exuberant scorn.] Aw, yuh
make me sick! Lie down and croak, why don't yuh? Always beefin',
dat's you! Say, dis is a cinch! Dis was made for me! It's my meat,
get me! [A whistle is blown--a thin, shrill note from somewhere
overhead in the darkness. Yank curses without resentment.] Dere's
de damn engineer crakin' de whip. He tinks we're loafin'. PADDY--
[Vindictively.] God stiffen him!
YANK--[In an exultant tone of command.] Come on, youse guys! Git
into de game! She's gittin' hungry! Pile some grub in her! Trow it
into her belly! Come on now, all of youse! Open her up! [At this
last all the men, who have followed his movements of getting into
position, throw open their furnace doors with a deafening clang.
The fiery light floods over their shoulders as they bend round for
the coal. Rivulets of sooty sweat have traced maps on their backs.
The enlarged muscles form bunches of high light and shadow.]
YANK--[Chanting a count as he shovels without seeming effort.]
One--two--tree--[His voice rising exultantly in the joy of
battle.] Dat's de stuff! Let her have it! All togedder now! Sling
it into her! Let her ride! Shoot de piece now! Call de toin on
her! Drive her into it! Feel her move! Watch her smoke! Speed,
dat's her middle name! Give her coal, youse guys! Coal, dat's her
booze! Drink it up, baby! Let's see yuh sprint! Dig in and gain a
lap! Dere she go-o-es [This last in the chanting formula of the
gallery gods at the six-day bike race.
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