VOICES—He ain't ate nothin'.
Py golly, a fallar gat gat grub in him.
Divil a lie.
Yank feeda da fire, no feeda da face.
Ha-ha.
He ain't even washed hisself.
He's forgot.
Hey, Yank, you forgot to wash.
YANK—[Sullenly.] Forgot nothin'! To hell wit washin'.
VOICES—It'll stick to you. It'll get under your skin. Give yer the bleedin' itch, that's wot. It makes spots on you—like a leopard. Like a piebald nigger, you mean. Better wash up, Yank. You sleep better. Wash up, Yank. Wash up! Wash up!
YANK—[Resentfully.] Aw say, youse guys. Lemme alone. Can't youse see I'm tryin' to tink?
ALL—[Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery.] Think! [The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter.]
YANK—[Springing to his feet and glaring at them belligerently.] Yes, tink! Tink, dat's what I said! What about it? [They are silent, puzzled by his sudden resentment at what used to be one of his jokes. Yank sits down again in the same attitude of "The Thinker."]
VOICES—Leave him alone.
He's got a grouch on.
Why wouldn't he?
PADDY—[With a wink at the others.] Sure I know what's the matther. 'Tis aisy to see. He's fallen in love, I'm telling you.
ALL—[Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery.] Love! [The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter.]
YANK—[With a contemptuous snort.] Love, hell! Hate, dat's what. I've fallen in hate, get me?