ANNA—He ain't a sailor. He's a stoker.
CHRIS—[Forcibly.] Dat vas million times vorse, Ay tal you! Dem fallars dat vork below shoveling coal vas de dirtiest, rough gang of no-good fallars in vorld!
ANNA—I'd hate to hear you say that to Mat.
CHRIS—Oh, Ay tal him same tang. You don't gat it in head Ay'm scared of him yust 'cause he vas stronger'n Ay vas. [Menacingly.] You don't gat for fight with fists with dem fallars. Dere's oder vay for fix him.
ANNA—[Glancing at him with sudden alarm.] What d'you mean?
CHRIS—[Sullenly.] Nutting.
ANNA—You'd better not. I wouldn't start no trouble with him if I was you. He might forget some time that you was old and my father—and then you'd be out of luck.
CHRIS—[With smouldering hatred.] Vell, yust let him! Ay'm ole bird maybe, but Ay bet Ay show him trick or two.
ANNA—[Suddenly changing her tone—persuasively.] Aw come on, be good. What's eating you, anyway? Don't you want no one to be nice to me except yourself?
CHRIS—[Placated—coming to her—eagerly.] Yes, Ay do, Anna—only not fallar on sea. But Ay like for you marry steady fallar got good yob on land. You have little home in country all your own—