The Hairy Ape

got streaks a mile wide. Aw, to hell wit him! Let’s move, youse guys. We had a rest. Come on, she needs it! Give her pep! It ain’t for him. Him and his whistle, dey don’t belong. But we belong, see! We gotter feed de baby! Come on! He turns and flings his furnace door open. They all follow his lead. At this instant the Second and Fourth Engineers enter from the darkness on the left with Mildred between them. She starts, turns paler, her pose is crumbling, she shivers with fright in spite of the blazing heat, but forces herself to leave the Engineers and take a few steps nearer the men. She is right behind Yank. All this happens quickly while the men have their backs turned. Yank Come on, youse guys! He is turning to get coal when the whistle sounds again in a peremptory, irritating note. This drives Yank into a sudden fury. While the other men have turned full around and stopped dumbfounded by the spectacle of Mildred standing there in her white dress, Yank does not turn far enough to see her. Besides, his head is thrown back, he blinks upward through the murk trying to find the owner of the whistle, he brandishes his shovel murderously over his head in one hand, pounding on his chest, gorilla-like, with the other, shouting: Toin off dat whistle! Come down outa dere, yuh yellow, brass-buttoned, Belfast bum, yuh! Come down and I’ll knock yer brains out! Yuh lousey, stinkin’, yellow mut of a Catholic-moiderin’ bastard! Come down and I’ll moider yuh! Pullin’ dat whistle on me, huh? I’ll show yuh! I’ll crash yer skull in! I’ll drive yer teet’ down yer troat! I’ll slam yer nose trou de back of yer head! I’ll cut yer guts out for a nickel, yuh lousey boob, yuh dirty, crummy, muck-eatin’ son of a⁠— Suddenly he becomes conscious of all the other men staring at something directly behind his back. He whirls defensively with a snarling, murderous growl, crouching to spring, his lips drawn back o’ver his teeth, his small eyes gleaming ferociously. He sees Mildred, like a white apparition in the full light from the open furnace doors. He glares into her eyes, turned to stone. As for her, during his speech she has listened, paralyzed with horror, terror, her whole personality crushed, beaten in, collapsed, by the terrific impact of this unknown, abysmal brutality, naked and shameless. As she looks at his gorilla face, as his eyes bore into hers, she utters a low, choking cry and shrinks away from him, putting both hands up before her eyes to shut out the sight of his face, to protect her own. This startles Yank to a reaction. His mouth falls open, his eyes grow bewildered. Mildred About to faint⁠—to the Engineers, who now have her one by each arm⁠—whimperingly. Take me away! Oh, the filthy beast! She faints. They carry her quickly back, disappearing in the darkness at the left, rear. An iron door clangs shut. Rage and bewildered fury rush back on Yank. He feels himself insulted in some unknown fashion in the very heart of his pride. He roars: God damn yuh! And hurls his shovel after them at the door which has just closed. It hits the steel bulkhead with a clang and falls clattering on the steel floor. From overhead the whistle sounds again in a long, angry, insistent command. Curtain.

Scene IV

	The firemen’s forecastle. Yank’s watch has just come off duty and had dinner. Their faces and bodies shine from a soap and water scrubbing but around their eyes, where a hasty dousing does not touch, the coal dust sticks like black makeup, giving them a queer, sinister expression. Yank has not washed either face or body. He stands out in contrast to them, a blackened, brooding figure. He is seated forward on a bench in the exact attitude of Rodin’s The Thinker. The others, most of them smoking pipes, are staring at Yank half-apprehensively, as if fearing an outburst; half-amusedly, as if they saw a joke somewhere that tickled them.
Voices	He ain’t ate nothin’.
	Py golly, a fallar gat gat grub in him.
	Divil a lie.
	Yank feeda da fire, no feeda da face.
	Ha-ha.
	He ain’t even washed hisself.
	He’s forgot.
	Hey, Yank, you forgot to wash.
Yank	Sullenly. Forgot nothin’! To hell wit washin’.
Voices	It’ll stick to you.
	It’ll get under your skin.
	Give yer the bleedin’ itch, that’s wot.
	It makes spots on you⁠—like a leopard.
	Like a piebald nigger, you mean.
	Better wash up, Yank.
	You sleep better.
	Wash up, Yank.
	Wash up! Wash up!
Yank	Resentfully. Aw say, youse guys. Lemme alone. Can’t youse see I’m tryin’ to tink?
All	Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery. Think! The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter.
Yank	Springing to his feet and glaring at them belligerently. Yes, tink! Tink, dat’s what I said! What about it? They are silent, puzzled by his sudden resentment at what used to be one of his jokes. Yank sits down again in the same attitude of The Thinker.
Voices	Leave him alone.
	He’s got a grouch on.
	Why wouldn’t he?
Paddy	With a wink at the others. Sure I know what’s the matther. ’Tis aisy to see. He’s fallen in love, I’m telling you.
All	Repeating the word after him as one with cynical mockery. Love! The word has a brazen, metallic quality as if their throats were phonograph horns. It is followed by a chorus of hard, barking laughter.
Yank	With a contemptuous snort. Love, hell! Hate, dat’s what. I’ve fallen in hate, get me?
Paddy	Philosophically. ’Twould