ANNA—[With a start.] What you got in your pocket, for Pete's sake—a ton of lead? [She reaches down, takes the coat and pulls out a revolver—looks from it to him in amazement.] A gun? What were you doing with this?
CHRIS—[Sheepishly.] Ay forgat. Ain't nutting. Ain't loaded, anyvay.
ANNA—[Breaking it open to make sure—then closing it again—looking at him suspiciously.] That ain't telling me why you got it?
CHRIS—[Sheepishly.] Ay'm ole fool. Ay gat it vhen Ay go ashore first. Ay tank den it's all fault of dat Irish fallar.
ANNA—[With a shudder.] Say, you're crazier than I thought. I never dreamt you'd go that far.
CHRIS—[Quickly.] Ay don't. Ay gat better sense right avay. Ay don't never buy bullets even. It ain't his fault, Ay know.
ANNA—[Still suspicious of him.] Well, I'll take care of this for a while, loaded or not. [She puts it in the drawer of table and closes the drawer.]
CHRIS—[Placatingly.] Throw it overboard if you vant. Ay don't care, [Then after a pause.] Py golly, Ay tank Ay go lie down. Ay feel sick. [ANNA takes a magazine from the table. CHRIS hesitates by her chair.] Ve talk again before Ay go, yes?
ANNA—[Dully.] Where's this ship going to?
CHRIS—Cape Town. Dat's in South Africa. She's British steamer called Londonderry. [He stands hesitatingly—finally blurts out.] Anna—you forgive me sure?