window looking out on the street. Beyond it, the main entrance--a
double swinging door. Farther back, another window. The bar runs
from left to right nearly the whole length of the rear wall. In
back of the bar, a small showcase displaying a few bottles of case
goods, for which there is evidently little call. The remainder of
the rear space in front of the large mirrors is occupied by half-
barrels of cheap whiskey of the "nickel-a-shot" variety, from
which the liquor is drawn by means of spigots. On the right is an
open doorway leading to the back room. In the back room are four
round wooden tables with five chairs grouped about each. In the
rear, a family entrance opening on a side street.

It is late afternoon of a day in fall.

As the curtain rises, Johnny is discovered. "Johnny-The-Priest"
deserves his nickname. With his pale, thin, clean-shaven face,
mild blue eyes and white hair, a cassock would seem more suited to
him than the apron he wears. Neither his voice nor his general
manner dispel this illusion which has made him a personage of the
water front. They are soft and bland. But beneath all his mildness
one senses the man behind the mask--cynical, callous, hard as
nails. He is lounging at ease behind the bar, a pair of spectacles
on his nose, reading an evening paper.

Two longshoremen enter from the street, wearing their working
aprons, the button of the union pinned conspicuously on the caps
pulled sideways on their heads at an aggressive angle.

FIRST LONGSHOREMAN--[As they range themselves at the bar.] Gimme a
shock. Number Two. [He tosses a coin on the bar.]