BURKE—[Stoutly.] Yes, thank God, though I've not seen a sight of it in fifteen years or more.
ANNA—[Thoughtfully.] Sailors never do go home hardly, do they? That's what my father was saying.
BURKE—He wasn't telling no lie. [With sudden melancholy.] It's a hard and lonesome life, the sea is. The only women you'd meet in the ports of the world who'd be willing to speak you a kind word isn't woman at all. You know the kind I mane, and they're a poor, wicked lot, God forgive them. They're looking to steal the money from you only.
ANNA—[Her face averted—rising to her feet—agitatedly.] I think—I guess I'd better see what's doing inside.
BURKE—[Afraid he has offended her—beseechingly.] Don't go, I'm saying! Is it I've given you offence with my talk of the like of them? Don't heed it at all! I'm clumsy in my wits when it comes to talking proper with a girl the like of you. And why wouldn't I be? Since the day I left home for to go to sea punching coal, this is the first time I've had a word with a rale, dacent woman. So don't turn your back on me now, and we beginning to be friends.
ANNA—[Turning to him again—forcing a smile.] I'm not sore at you, honest.
BURKE—[Gratefully.] God bless you!
ANNA—[Changing the subject abruptly.] But if you honestly think the sea's such a rotten life, why don't you get out of it?
BURKE—[Surprised.] Work on land, is it? [She nods. He spits scornfully.] Digging spuds in the muck from dawn to dark, I suppose? [Vehemently.] I wasn't made for it, Miss.
ANNA—[With a laugh.] I thought you'd say that.