LARRY—She knows your daughter's comin'. Tell her to get the hell out of it.
CHRIS—No. Ay don't like make her feel bad.
LARRY—You're an old mush! Keep your girl away from the barge, then. She'll likely want to stay ashore anyway. [Curiously.] What does she work at, your Anna?
CHRIS—She stay on dem cousins' farm 'till two year ago. Dan she gat yob nurse gel in St. Paul. [Then shaking his head resolutely.] But Ay don't vant for her gat yob now. Ay vant for her stay with me.
LARRY—[Scornfully.] On a coal barge! She'll not like that, I'm thinkin'.
MARTHY—[Shouts from next room.] Don't I get that bucket o' suds, Dutchy?
CHRIS—[Startled—in apprehensive confusion.] Yes, Ay come, Marthy.
LARRY—[Drawing the lager and ale, hands it to CHRIS—laughing.] Now you're in for it! You'd better tell her straight to get out!
CHRIS—[Shaking in his boots.] Py golly. [He takes her drink in to MARTHY and sits down at the table. She sips it in silence. LARRY moves quietly close to the partition to listen, grinning with expectation. CHRIS seems on the verge of speaking, hesitates, gulps down his whiskey desperately as if seeking for courage. He attempts to whistle a few bars of "Yosephine" with careless bravado, but the whistle peters out futilely. MARTHY stares at him keenly, taking in his embarrassment with a malicious twinkle of amusement in her eye. CHRIS clears his throat.] Marthy—
MARTHY—[Aggressively.] Wha's that? [Then, pretending to fly into a rage, her eyes enjoying CHRIS' misery.] I'm wise to what's in back of your nut, Dutchy. Yuh want to git rid o' me, huh?—now she's comin'. Gimme the bum's rush ashore, huh? Lemme tell yuh, Dutchy, there ain't a square-head workin' on a boat man enough to git away with that. Don't start nothin' yuh can't finish!