wizened Irishman who is dozing, very drunk, on the benches
forward. His face is extremely monkey-like with all the sad,
patient pathos of that animal in his small eyes.] Singa da song,
Caruso Pat! He's gettin' old. The drink is too much for him. He's
too drunk.

PADDY--[Blinking about him, starts to his feet resentfully,
swaying, holding on to the edge of a bunk.] I'm never too drunk to
sing. 'Tis only when I'm dead to the world I'd be wishful to sing
at all. [With a sort of sad contempt.] "Whiskey Johnny," ye want?
A chanty, ye want? Now that's a queer wish from the ugly like of
you, God help you. But no matther. [He starts to sing in a thin,
nasal, doleful tone:]

Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey! O Johnny!

[They all join in on this.]

Oh, whiskey is the life of man!
Whiskey for my Johnny! [Again chorus]
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey! O Johnny!
Oh, whiskey drove my old man mad!
Whiskey for my Johnny!

YANK--[Again turning around scornfully.] Aw hell! Nix on dat old
sailing ship stuff! All dat bull's dead, see? And you're dead,
too, yuh damned old Harp, on'y yuh don't know it. Take it easy,
see. Give us a rest. Nix on de loud noise. [With a cynical grin.]