JOHNNY--Oh--don't forget to give him his letter.

LARRY--I won't. [JOHNNY goes out. In the meantime, CHRIS has
opened the family entrance door, admitting MARTHY. She might be
forty or fifty. Her jowly, mottled face, with its thick red nose,
is streaked with interlacing purple veins. Her thick, gray hair is
piled anyhow in a greasy mop on top of her round head. Her figure
is flabby and fat; her breath comes in wheezy gasps; she speaks in
a loud, mannish voice, punctuated by explosions of hoarse
laughter. But there still twinkles in her blood-shot blue eyes a
youthful lust for life which hard usage has failed to stifle, a
sense of humor mocking, but good-tempered. She wears a man's cap,
double-breasted man's jacket, and a grimy, calico skirt. Her bare
feet are encased in a man's brogans several sizes too large for
her, which gives her a shuffling, wobbly gait.]

MARTHY--[Grumblingly.] What yuh tryin' to do, Dutchy--keep me
standin' out there all day? [She comes forward and sits at the
table in the right corner, front.]

CHRIS--[Mollifyingly.] Ay'm sorry, Marthy. Ay talk to Yohnny. Ay
forgat. What you goin' take for drink?

MARTHY--[Appeased.] Gimme a scoop of lager an' ale.

CHRIS--Ay go bring him back. [He returns to the bar.] Lager and
ale for Marthy, Larry. Vhiskey for me. [He throws change on the
bar.]