CHRIS—[Lifting his glass.] Skoal! [He drinks.]
JOHNNY—Drink hearty.
CHRIS—[Immediately.] Have oder drink.
JOHNNY—No. Some other time. Got to go home now. So you've just landed? Where are you in from this time?
CHRIS—Norfolk. Ve make slow voyage—dirty vedder—yust fog, fog, fog, all bloody time! [There is an insistent ring from the doorbell at the family entrance in the back room. Chris gives a start—hurriedly.] Ay go open, Larry. Ay forgat. It vas Marthy. She come with me. [He goes into the back room.]
LARRY—[With a chuckle.] He's still got that same cow livin' with him, the old fool!
JOHNNY—[With a grin.] A sport, Chris is. Well, I'll beat it home. S'long. [He goes to the street door.]
LARRY—So long, boss.
JOHNNY—Oh—don't forget to give him his letter.
LARRY—I won't. [JOHNNY goes out. In the meantime, CHRIS has opened the family entrance door, admitting MARTHY. She might be forty or fifty. Her jowly, mottled face, with its thick red nose, is streaked with interlacing purple veins. Her thick, gray hair is piled anyhow in a greasy mop on top of her round head. Her figure is flabby and fat; her breath comes in wheezy gasps; she speaks in a loud, mannish voice, punctuated by explosions of hoarse laughter. But there still twinkles in her blood-shot blue eyes a youthful lust for life which hard usage has failed to stifle, a sense of humor mocking, but good-tempered. She wears a man's cap, double-breasted man's jacket, and a grimy, calico skirt. Her bare feet are encased in a man's brogans several sizes too large for her, which gives her a shuffling, wobbly gait.]