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._] Aw say, youse guys. Lemme alone. Can't youse see I'm tryin' to tink? ALL--[_Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery._] Think! [_The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter._] YANK--[_Springing to his feet and glaring at them belligerently._] Yes, tink! Tink, dat's what I said! What about it? [_They are silent, puzzled by his sudden resentment at what used to be one of his jokes. Yank sits down again in the same attitude of "The Thinker."_] VOICES--Leave him alone. He's got a grouch on. Why wouldn't he? PADDY--[_With a wink at the others._] Sure I know what's the matther. 'Tis aisy to see. He's fallen in love, I'm telling you. ALL--[_Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery._] Love! [_The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter._] YANK--[_With a contemptuous snort._] Love, hell! Hate, dat's what. I've fallen in hate, get me? PADDY--[_Philosophically_] 'Twould take a wise man to tell one from the other. [_With a bitter, ironical scorn, increasing as he goes on._] But I'm telling you it's love that's in it. Sure what else but love for us poor bastes in the stokehole would be bringing a fine lady, dressed like a white quane, down a mile of ladders and steps to be havin' a look at us? [_A growl of anger goes up from all sides._]