The Professor's Son--(Weakening rapidly) No--go on, boys, carry the--banner of--civilization's ideals--forward--without me--Tell mother I'm glad--I did--my bit--for the freedom--of the world--fellows, the only--thing--I regret--is that I won't--be able to be with you--when you--go back--to enjoy the gratitude--of America--good-bye, fellows, may you drink--to the full--the rewards of a grateful nation. He dies. The others regretfully leave him behind as they push on after the fleeing Huns. The stage is slowly darkened--the noise of battle dies away. Enter an Angel in the uniform of the Y.M.C.A. She goes up to the fallen hero and taking him in her arms tenderly carries him off the stage. CURTAIN TWO YEARS PASS ACT TWO (Eugene O'Neill) SCENE I The bedroom of a bachelor apartment in New York City in the Fall of 1920. There is about the room an air of neglect, as though the occupant did not particularly give a damn whether he slept in this room or in hell. This is evidenced in a general way by the absence of any attempts at decoration and by the presence of dirty laundry and unopened letters scattered about the room. The furniture consists of a bed and a bureau; at the foot of the former is a trunk such as was used by American army officers in the recent war. Although it is three in the morning, the bed is unoccupied. The electric light over the bureau has been left lighted. The lamp flickers and goes out for a minute; when it again flashes on, the Angel and the Professor's Son are seen standing in the room, as though they had come there directly from the close of the preceding act; the Angel, however, has completely removed all Y.M.C.A. insignia and now has a beard and chews tobacco; from time to time he spits out of the window. The angel--Why the hell weren't you satisfied to stay in heaven? The Professor's Son--Well, I just wanted to see my old buddies once more--I want to see them enjoying the gratitude of the world. The Angel--Hmmmm--well, this is where your Lieutenant now lives--and I think I hear him coming. They step behind a curtain. The noise of a key rattling in a lock is heard, then a light flashes on in the next room. The sound of unsteady footsteps--a vase is knocked over--a curse--then enter the Lieutenant. He wears a dinner-coat, one sleeve of which hangs empty. His face is white, his eyes set, his mouth hard and hopeless. He is drunk--not hilariously--but with the drunkenness of despair. He sits down on the bed and remains for several minutes, his head in his hands. The Lieutenant--God, I'm drunk--(after a pause)--drunk again--well, what of it--what the hell difference does it make--get drunk if I want to--sure I will--get drunk--that's the dope DRUNK--oh Christ--! He throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes sits up. The Lieutenant--Gotta have another drink--can't go sleep, God damn it--brain too clear--gotta kill brain--that's the dope--kill brain--forget--wipe out past--