He packa da wallop, I tella you!

Shut up, Wop!

No fightin', maties. We're all chums, ain't we?

[A voice starts bawling a song.]

"Beer, beer, glorious beer!
Fill yourselves right up to here."

YANK--[For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproar
about him, turns around threateningly--in a tone of contemptuous
authority.] "Choke off dat noise! Where d'yuh get dat beer stuff?
Beer, hell! Beer's for goils--and Dutchmen. Me for somep'n wit a
kick to it! Gimme a drink, one of youse guys. [Several bottles are
eagerly offered. He takes a tremendous gulp at one of them; then,
keeping the bottle in his hand, glares belligerently at the owner,
who hastens to acquiesce in this robbery by saying:] All righto,
Yank. Keep it and have another." [Yank contemptuously turns his
back on the crowd again. For a second there is an embarrassed
silence. Then--]

VOICES--We must be passing the Hook. She's beginning to roll to
it. Six days in hell--and then Southampton. Py Yesus, I vish
somepody take my first vatch for me! Gittin' seasick, Square-head?
Drink up and forget it! What's in your bottle? Gin. Dot's nigger
trink. Absinthe? It's doped. You'll go off your chump, Froggy!
Cochon! Whiskey, that's the ticket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep.
Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy. [They all turn to an old,