MARTHY—[Touching CHRIS' arm persuasively.] You're soused to the ears, Dutchy. Go out and put a feed into you. It'll sober you up. [Then as CHRIS shakes his head obstinately.] Listen, yuh old nut! Yuh don't know what time your kid's liable to show up. Yuh want to be sober when she comes, don't yuh?
CHRIS—[Aroused—gets unsteadily to his feet.] Py golly, yes.
LARRY—That's good sense for you. A good beef stew'll fix you. Go round the corner.
CHRIS—All right. Ay be back soon, Marthy. [CHRIS goes through the bar and out the street door.]
LARRY—He'll come round all right with some grub in him.
MARTHY—Sure. [LARRY goes back to the bar and resumes his newspaper. MARTHY sips what is left of her schooner reflectively. There is the ring of the family entrance bell. LARRY comes to the door and opens it a trifle—then, with a puzzled expression, pulls it wide. ANNA CHRISTOPHERSON enters. She is a tall, blond, fully-developed girl of twenty, handsome after a large, Viking-daughter fashion but now run down in health and plainly showing all the outward evidences of belonging to the world's oldest profession. Her youthful face is already hard and cynical beneath its layer of make-up. Her clothes are the tawdry finery of peasant stock turned prostitute. She comes and sinks wearily in a chair by the table, left front.]
ANNA—Gimme a whiskey—ginger ale on the side. [Then, as LARRY turns to go, forcing a winning smile at him.] And don't be stingy, baby.
LARRY—[Sarcastically.] Shall I serve it in a pail?
ANNA—[With a hard laugh.] That suits me down to the ground. [LARRY goes into the bar. The two women size each other up with frank stares. LARRY comes back with the drink which he sets before ANNA and returns to the bar again. ANNA downs her drink at a gulp. Then, after a moment, as the alcohol begins to rouse her, she turns to MARTHY with a friendly smile.] Gee, I needed that bad, all right, all right!
MARTHY—[Nodding her head sympathetically.] Sure—yuh look all in. Been on a bat?