"Blast it!—I've got no home."
"Well, who has?"
"But—" Harty took the spare pack which he had been riffling and slammed it down on the table—"there's men who've got homes—good homes—who're going to their death to sea to-night."
"What's the matter, Bud? Sit down. Sure there are. They're there every night, goin' to [pg 99] their death somewhere out to sea, but how c'n we help it?"
"We can help it." Harty stood up "Fine men we are, all of us."
Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti—
Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti—
came from the piano.
Harty whirled around. "And as for you!" He picked up the spare pack and hurled them at the fat piano-player. "Blast you! Yes, you—I said you, didn't I—shut up! It's petticoats you ought to be wearing."
The piano-player's lower lip fell away from his teeth. His wall eyes opened abnormally. "Why, what did I do to you?" he gasped.