] Oh, hell, what's the use of talking? You're a brainless
ape.
YANK--[Aroused by the word to fierce but futile struggles.] What's
dat, yuh Sheeny bum, yuh!
SECRETARY--Throw him out, boys. [In spite of his struggles, this
is done with gusto and eclat. Propelled by several parting kicks,
YANK lands sprawling in the middle of the narrow cobbled street.
With a growl he starts to get up and storm the closed door, but
stops bewildered by the confusion in his brain, pathetically
impotent. He sits there, brooding, in as near to the attitude of
Rodin's "Thinker" as he can get in his position.]
YANK--[Bitterly.] So dem boids don't tink I belong, neider. Aw, to
hell wit 'em! Dey're in de wrong pew--de same old bull--soapboxes
and Salvation Army--no guts! Cut out an hour offen de job a day
and make me happy! Gimme a dollar more a day and make me happy!
Tree square a day, and cauliflowers in de front yard--ekal rights--
a woman and kids--a lousey vote--and I'm all fixed for Jesus,
huh? Aw, hell! What does dat get yuh? Dis ting's in your inside,
but it ain't your belly. Feedin' your face--sinkers and coffee--
dat don't touch it. It's way down--at de bottom. Yuh can't grab
it, and yuh can't stop it. It moves, and everyting moves. It stops
and de whole woild stops. Dat's me now--I don't tick, see?--I'm a
busted Ingersoll, dat's what.
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