dat tripe? Dis is
home, see? What d'yuh want wit home? [_Proudly._] I runned away from
mine when I was a kid. On'y too glad to beat it, dat was me. Home was
lickings for me, dat's all. But yuh can bet your shoit noone ain't
never licked me since! Wanter try it, any of youse? Huh! I guess not.
[_In a more placated but still contemptuous tone._] Goils waitin' for
yuh, huh? Aw, hell! Dat's all tripe. Dey don't wait for noone. Dey'd
double-cross yuh for a nickel. Dey're all tarts, get me? Treat 'em
rough, dat's me. To hell wit 'em. Tarts, dat's what, de whole bunch of
'em.

LONG--[_Very drunk, jumps on a bench excitedly, gesticulating with a
bottle in his hand._] Listen 'ere, Comrades! Yank 'ere is right. 'E
says this 'ere stinkin' ship is our 'ome. And 'e says as 'ome is 'ell.
And 'e's right! This is 'ell. We lives in 'ell, Comrades--and right
enough we'll die in it. [_Raging._] And who's ter blame, I arsks yer?
We ain't. We wasn't born this rotten way. All men is born free and
ekal. That's in the bleedin' Bible, maties. But what d'they care for
the Bible--them lazy, bloated swine what travels first cabin? Them's
the ones. They dragged us down 'til we're on'y wage slaves in the
bowels of a bloody ship, sweatin', burnin' up, eatin' coal dust! Hit's
them's ter blame--the damned capitalist clarss! [_There had been a
gradual murmur of contemptuous resentment rising among the men until
now he is interrupted by a storm of catcalls, hisses, boos, hard
laughter._]

VOICES--Turn it off!

Shut up!

Sit down!

Closa da face!

Tamn fool! (Etc.)

YANK--[_Standing up and glaring at Long._] Sit down before I knock yuh
down! [_Long makes haste to efface himself. Yank goes on
contemptuously._] De Bible, huh? De Cap'tlist class, huh? Aw nix on dat
Salvation Army-Socialist bull. Git a soapbox! Hire a hall! Come and be
saved, huh? Jerk us to Jesus, huh? Aw g'wan! I've listened to lots of
guys like you, see, Yuh're all wrong. Wanter know what I t'ink? Yuh
ain't no good for noone. Yuh're de bunk. Yuh ain't got no noive, get
me? Yuh're yellow, dat's what. Yellow, dat's you. Say! What's dem slobs
in de foist cabin got to do wit us? We're better men dan dey are, ain't
we? Sure! One of us guys could clean up de whole mob wit one mit. Put
one of 'em down here for one watch in de stokehole, what'd happen?
Dey'd carry him off on a stretcher. Dem boids don't amount to nothin'.
Dey're just baggage. Who makes dis old tub run? Ain't it us guys?