ket! Where's Paddy? Going asleep. Sing us that whiskey song, Paddy.
[_They all turn to an old, 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._] Can't youse see
I'm tryin' to t'ink?

ALL--[_Repeating the word after him as one with same cynical amused
mockery._] Think! [_The chorused word has a brazen metallic quality as
if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a general
uproar of hard, barking laughter._]

VOICES--Don't be cracking your head wid ut, Yank.

You gat headache, py yingo!

One thing about it--it rhymes with drink!

Ha, ha, ha!

Drink, don't think!

Drink, don't think!

Drink, don't think!

[_A whole chorus of voices has taken up this refrain, stamping on the
floor, pounding on the benches with fists._]

YANK--[_Taking a gulp from his bottle--good-naturedly._] Aw right. Can
de noise. I got yuh de foist time. [_The uproar subsides. A very
drunken sentimental tenor begins to sing:_]

"Far away in Canada,
Far across the sea,
There's a lass who fondly waits
Making a home for me--"

YANK--[_Fiercely contemptuous._] Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where d'yuh
get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh! I'll knock
yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get