ANNA—[Impressed by his tone.] You talk—nutty to-night yourself. You act's if you was scared something was going to happen.
CHRIS—Only God know dat, Anna.
ANNA—[Half-mockingly.] Then it'll be Gawd's will, like the preachers say-what does happen.
CHRIS—[Starts to his feet with fierce protest.] No! Dat ole davil, sea, she ain't God! [In the pause of silence that comes after his defiance a hail in a man's husky, exhausted voice comes faintly out of the fog to port.] "Ahoy!" [CHRIS gives a startled exclamation.]
ANNA—[Jumping to her feet.] What's that?
CHRIS—[Who has regained his composure—sheepishly.] Py golly, dat scare me for minute. It's only some fallar hail, Anna—loose his course in fog. Must be fisherman's power boat. His engine break down, Ay guess. [The "ahoy" comes again through the wall of fog, sounding much nearer this time. CHRIS goes over to the port bulwark.] Sound from dis side. She come in from open sea. [He holds his hands to his mouth, megaphone-fashion, and shouts back.] Ahoy, dere! Vhat's trouble?
THE VOICE—[This time sounding nearer but up forward toward the bow.] Heave a rope when we come alongside. [Then irritably.] Where are ye, ye scut?
CHRIS—Ay hear dem rowing. Dey come up by bow, Ay tank. [Then shouting out again.] Dis vay!
THE VOICE—Right ye are! [There is a muffled sound of oars in oar-locks.]
ANNA—[Half to herself—resentfully.] Why don't that guy stay where he belongs?