The Hairy Ape

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. Voices 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! 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. Voice 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 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? Well den, we belong, don’t we? We belong and dey don’t. Dat’s all. A loud chorus of approval. Yank goes on. As for dis bein’ hell⁠—aw, nuts! Yuh lost your noive, dat’s what. Dis is a man’s job, get me? It belongs. It runs dis tub. No stiffs need apply. But yuh’re a stiff, see? Yuh’re yellow, dat’s you. Voices With a great hard pride in them. Righto! A man’s job! Talk is cheap, Long. He never could hold up his end. Divil take him! Yank’s right. We make it go. Py Gott, Yank say right ting! We don’t need noone cryin’ over us. Makin’ speeches. Throw him out! Yellow!
Chuck him overboard! I’ll break his jaw for him! They crowd around Long threateningly. Yank Half