From overhead the whistle sounds
again in a long, angry, insistent command.]
[Curtain]
SCENE IV
SCENE--The firemen's forecastle. Yank's watch has just come off
duty and had dinner. Their faces and bodies shine from a soap and
water scrubbing but around their eyes, where a hasty dousing does
not touch, the coal dust sticks like black make-up, giving them a
queer, sinister expression. Yank has not washed either face or
body. He stands out in contrast to them, a blackened, brooding
figure. He is seated forward on a bench in the exact attitude of
Rodin's "The Thinker." The others, most of them smoking pipes, are
staring at Yank half-apprehensively, as if fearing an outburst;
half-amusedly, as if they saw a joke somewhere that tickled them.
VOICES--He ain't ate nothin'.
Py golly, a fallar gat gat grub in him.
Divil a lie.
Yank feeda da fire, no feeda da face.
Ha-ha.
He ain't even washed hisself.
He's forgot.
Hey, Yank, you forgot to wash.
YANK--[Sullenly.] Forgot nothin'! To hell wit washin'.
VOICES--It'll stick to you. It'll get under your skin. Give yer
the bleedin' itch, that's wot. It makes spots on you--like a
leopard. Like a piebald nigger, you mean. Better wash up, Yank.
You sleep better. Wash up, Yank. Wash up! Wash up!
YANK--[Resentfully.
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