Roy. Matt Winsor.
Matt. Here. (Hic.) Hold on a minute. Yes, it’s Roy (hic), Roy Manning, as I’m a shinner!
Roy (grasping his hand). My old comrade, Matt. Heaven bless you! It is, it is.
Matt (shaking his hand). Yes it’s him, glory (hic), old boy; we’ve marched together, slept together, fought together, now let’s take (hic) a drink together.
Roy. Not now, Matt; you seem to have taken a little too much already. May, this is my old comrade, of the war.
May (turning away). His comrade?
Bess (comes down L.). May, he’s drunk.
Matt (comes down). ’Scuse me, ma’am, we were sweethearts in the camp (hic), you’re his sweet—hic—heart now; but you can’t love Roy any better than I did in those (hic) gay old days (hic), and now an ungrateful (hic) republic turns her noble ’fenders out to starve.
Roy. Not quite as bad as that, Matt. I’ve enough and to spare. Come with me.