I'll bet on Dutchy. He packa da wallop, I tella you! Shut up, Wop! No fightin', maties. We're all chums, ain't we? [_A voice starts bawling a song._] "Beer, beer, glorious beer! Fill yourselves right up to here." YANK--[_For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproar about him, turns around threateningly--in a tone of contemptuous authority._] "Choke off dat noise! Where d'yuh get dat beer stuff? Beer, hell! Beer's for goils--and Dutchmen. Me for somep'n wit a kick to it! Gimme a drink, one of youse guys. [_Several bottles are eagerly offered. He takes a tremendous gulp at one of them; then, keeping the bottle in his hand, glares belligerently at the owner, who hastens to acquiesce in this robbery by saying:_] All righto, Yank. Keep it and have another." [_Yank contemptuously turns his back on the crowd again. For a second there is an embarrassed silence. Then--_] VOICES--We must be passing the Hook. She's beginning to roll to it. Six days in hell--and then Southampton. Py Yesus, I vish somepody take my first vatch for me! Gittin' seasick, Square-head? Drink up and forget it! What's in your bottle? Gin. Dot's nigger trink. Absinthe? It's doped. You'll go off your chump, Froggy! Cochon! Whiskey, that's the ticket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep. Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy. [_They all turn to an old, wizened Irishman who is dozing, very drunk, on the benches forward. His face is extremely monkey-like with all the sad, patient pathos of that animal in his small eyes._] Singa da song, Caruso Pat! He's gettin' old. The drink is too much for him. He's too drunk. PADDY--[_Blinking about him, starts to his feet resentfully, swaying, holding on to the edge of a bunk._] I'm never too drunk to sing. 'Tis only when I'm dead to the world I'd be wishful to sing at all. [_With a sort of sad contempt._] "Whiskey Johnny," ye want? A chanty, ye want? Now that's a queer wish from the ugly like of you, God help you. But no matther. [_He starts to sing in a thin, nasal, doleful tone:_] Oh, whiskey is the life of man! Whiskey! O Johnny! [_They all join in on this._] Oh, whiskey is the life of man! Whiskey for my Johnny! [_Again chorus_] Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad! Whiskey! O Johnny! Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad! Whiskey for my Johnny! YANK--[_Again turning around scornfully._] Aw hell! Nix on dat old sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead, too, yuh damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy, see. Give us a rest. Nix on de loud noise. [_With a cynical grin._] Can't youse see I'm tryin' to t'ink? ALL--[_Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amused mockery._] Think! [_The chorused word has a brazen metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a general uproar of hard, barking laughter._] VOICES--Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank. You gat headache, py yingo!