[1] Local.
GLADYS: My poor husband, how you must have suffered!
MOE REISS: At heart, I was always true to you and our little boy, and I want to come back home.
GLADYS: But tell me, Moe, how are you fixed? (Tries to feel his vest pocket.)
MOE REISS: Fine, I am running a swell gambling joint.
GLADYS: Splendid! Now, Phonsie shall have proper nourishment.
MOE REISS: He shall have all the food he can eat. (Up to bed.)
GLADYS: Yes, and all the beer he can drink.
MOE REISS: Great heavens, I could never pay for that.
GLADYS: Ah, then he will have to cut out his souse. Dear little chap; he loved to get tanked up. Oh look at him, Moe, he is the living image of you. I think if he lives, he will be a great bull fighter. (PHONSIE has finished the beer, and is sucking at a nipple on large bottle marked "Pure Rye.")