GODS OF THE LIGHTNING
THE CAST
ACT I
Scene: The scene is the restaurant in the Labor Lyceum building of a city on the eastern seaboard.
At the right is a large window facing on the street, and at the right rear an outside entrance. At the left a door leads to an inner hall and the stairway to the upper floors. Along about half of the rear wall at the right runs a counter with a coffee urn and the usual display of quick lunch foods. A swinging door back of the counter leads to a small kitchen. There are folding doors in the rear wall at the left, opening on a hall used for labor meetings. There are tables and chairs for the customers of the restaurant. In the left rear corner there is a table covered with books and pamphlets and another which holds a chess-board. A large clock hangs on the rear wall. The hands point to ten-twenty. It is dark outside.
Pete, the counter-man, swabs off the top of his counter and goes into the kitchen. Suvorin, a solid bulk of a man, with a satanic, dominating face, sits in the left rear corner, his chair tilted against the wall. His eyes are fixed on the floor. Heine, a disreputable figure enters from the street and looks furtively about him, glancing back at the window.
SUVORIN [without moving]. What are you doing here?
HEINE. Am I going to leave town without getting mine?
SUVORIN. You’ll get yours fast enough if you hang around here.
HEINE. How much was it?
SUVORIN. $28,000.
HEINE. Where’s mine?
SUVORIN. That’s half.
HEINE. How much?
SUVORIN. Fourteen. Take it and get out. You’d better beat it into Canada and stay there. You’re a fool and a bungler. If you’d followed instructions you’d have been safe.
HEINE. I had to do it. He was jumping at me.
SUVORIN. Take your money and to hell with you. You’re a fool. Are they trailing you?
HEINE. No.
SUVORIN. You wouldn’t know.
HEINE. Jesus, I’d know that.
SUVORIN. Don’t go out that way. Go upstairs and out the back. There’s an alley into Clark Street. Cross the line and for God’s sake use your head.
HEINE [going to lefthand door]. Good-bye, Sport.
SUVORIN. Get out.
[Heine goes out. Before the door has quite closed, Rosalie enters from the left, evidently passing Heine. She is a beautiful girl with a childlike Russian face.]
ROSALIE. Who was that? Has he any business here?
[Suvorin, seating himself, pays no attention to the question. One of the folding doors opens and Ward enters and closes the door.]
WARD. Mac here yet?
SUVORIN. No.
WARD. Hell! Have you seen him this evening, Rosalie?
ROSALIE. No.
WARD. Oh, that’s right, you—
ROSALIE. Yes?
WARD. Never mind.
[He goes back through the doors. Mac enters from the street.]
ROSALIE. Oh, Mac, where were you? I’ve been terrified!
MAC. [Thrusting a revolver into her hands.] Hello, kid. Put that away for me, will you, kid?
ROSALIE. But—whose is it?
MAC. That’s all right—I don’t want to carry it—that’s all.
[Ward re-enters, cramming his hat on.]
WARD. Say, Mac, I thought you’d been picked up.
MAC. Do you need me in there yet?
WARD. You’d better come in just so they’ll know you’re here.
MAC. How’s it going?
WARD. They’re scared. Three men killed and about fifty in the hospital. You might be able to hold ’em if you put it to ’em just right. Otherwise we’re licked.
MAC. Oh, no. We’ve got another card up our sleeves. Is Andy in there?
WARD. He’s waiting for you. Listen—there’s some talk about a raid tonight—maybe more than one—
ROSALIE. Say, Ward—if that’ll keep I want to talk to Mac a minute. Do you mind?
WARD. All right. I’ll tell Andy you’re here.
[He goes. Again part of a speech is heard.]
THE SPEAKER. And now they ask us to vote another five thousand for relief! Where are we going to get five thousand? [The door closes.]
ROSALIE. Now then—
MAC. Now then—
ROSALIE. This is no place for you tonight.
MAC. I knew it was coming.
ROSALIE. And you’re to beat it and stay under cover till they forget about this afternoon—
MAC. What do you know about this afternoon?
ROSALIE. I read about it—and my opinion is that you’ve done enough for one day. They can get along without you here.
MAC. It just happens they can’t get along without me.
ROSALIE. You won’t be much good to them in jail—
MAC. I’m not going to jail—so get that out of your head—
ROSALIE. Mac, you’re a child—
MAC. You’re pretty young yourself, you know. [Andy enters.] Hello, Andy.
ANDY. Looks like they was going to vote us down.
MAC. And then what?
ANDY. What do you say?
MAC. If you boys’ll stay with me you know what we can do.
ANDY. I’ll tell you how it is, Mac. We want to stay, see? I saw two or three of the boys before the meeting. They aren’t scared worth a damn, because we licked the company once before and we can do it again. They can’t operate without engineers.
MAC. I knew we could count on you.
ANDY. Well, wait a minute, Mac. Get us right. If the longshoremen go back tomorrow and we stay out it’ll take ’em a couple of weeks to pick up enough engineers to get along, see?
MAC. Right.
ANDY. All right. But in a couple of weeks they could do it—and we’d be left holding the bag. See? So we figure this way. The mills are holding a strike meeting tonight. If the mills go out and the engineers stay out, why the longshoremen they won’t be much good around the docks, and they’ll walk out again. But if the mills keep going, we don’t want to try it alone.
MAC. Don’t worry. The mills are going out.
ANDY. Can I tell the boys you said that?
MAC. I want you to tell them I said it.
ANDY. All right. We’ll have a meeting upstairs right after this jamboree’s over in here, see? Will you wait for me here?
MAC. Yeah.
[Andy goes out.]
ROSALIE. Now you’ll have to wait here—right where they’ll be looking for you—
MAC. I’ve got to hold the thing together.
ROSALIE. But use your head—
MAC. I am using it. I know it’s a risk to be here, but if I can pull this strike through it’s worth it—
ROSALIE. Let them lose their strike—
MAC. Be reasonable—
ROSALIE. Anything you can do somebody else could do for you! I’ll get rid of the gun for you—and you’ll disappear for a couple of weeks! Do you think it’s reasonable for you to wander in here with a gun in your pocket and half the police in town laying for you?
MAC. You certainly do feel old tonight, don’t you, kid?
ROSALIE. It’s enough to make anybody feel old. I’ve lived about a thousand years today—I wish this strike had never started, or it was over, or we could get away somewhere—
MAC. That wouldn’t help. Everywhere I go there’s a strike. I seem to take ’em with me. You’ll have to get used to that.
ROSALIE. Can’t you play safe, just this once? Can’t you do that much for me?
MAC. You heard what I said to Andy. The company thinks it’s got us in a corner and I’m going to prove it’s wrong, that’s all. [He stoops and kisses her briefly as the folding doors open and Ward looks in.]
WARD. You’d better come on in. Spiker isn’t going so well.
MAC. Yeah. Don’t worry, kid. We’ll be all right.
[The voice of Spiker is heard.]
SPIKER [inside]. I’ll tell you what I think—I think you’re too easy—
A HECKLER [inside]. When did you ever work on the docks?
[Mac and Ward enter the hall just as Ike and Milkin emerge, evidently shoved out of the meeting.]
IKE [as the door closes on him]. Long live the freedom of loose talk! Why should they put me out? I was a longshoreman before most of those guys cut their first knee-pants! They wasn’t even alive in ’97. They ain’t never seen hard times. I was born during the glorious second administration of General Grant, the most stupendous period of graft and prosperity this country has ever seen—with the solitary and luminous exception of Warren Gamaliel Harding! [He goes to the counter with Milkin.] Where’s Pete? [He addresses the hole in the wall through which food is pushed out from the kitchen.] Hey, cuckoo, cuckoo, we want coffee!
PETE [looking out]. What you want?
IKE. A slug of coffee, cuckoo!
PETE. We don’t cash checks.
IKE. You pay this time, Milkin. I lent all my money to a comrade. You can’t trust these revolutionists.
MILKIN. You didn’t have no money.
IKE. I had fifty cents this morning, and I gave it to a guy under guise of introducing me to a jane. But he weaseled me, at that.
MILKIN. Dat’s all right. Only don’t try to fool me.
IKE. You mean I was lying?
MILKIN. I can see right into your mind. I can see what you’re thinking.
PETE. Yeah?
IKE. Yes, sir. And if you don’t hurry up and give us coffee we’ll put the black art on you.
PETE. I lost tree dollar on you for a check.
MILKIN [laying a bill on the counter]. Dat’s all right. [Pete draws coffee for two.] We wouldn’t put no black art on you. We wouldn’t do nothing like that.
IKE. No, we wouldn’t do that. Only we could, see? I could, too.
MILKIN. I don’t tink you could. Not widout de cabalistic sign.
IKE. You gave me the sign, mystic?
MILKIN. Yeah, but you don’t know how to apply it!
IKE. Yes, sir—it comes natural to me. I can handle the black art sign like a plate of beans, and right after you give it to me I could tell any man in the street what he was thinking. Just like that! Won’t that be good when we get it working in politics? Jeez, that’s a highly mystical sign!
MILKIN. Only remember, if you got it you don’t work it for nutting but de best interests of de State.
IKE. Sure, the best interest of the State—
MILKIN [with emphasis]. And wait! Wait! Bide your time. And when you find a man in high office what don’t belong dere, level your finger at him and say to him— “Come down from dere—come down from dere!”
[As he says this he points a finger at an imaginary personage and by accident levels it at the street door, through which Sowerby is entering. Sowerby is a tall, lean, academic person, very threadbare and even frayed. He carries a high pile of books, a small bundle, and a coat. On top of the pile of books are perched two slippers.]
SOWERBY. Yes, gentlemen, I’ll come down. I’ve already come down considerably. In fact I’ve been shaken down again.
IKE. Put you out, huh?
SOWERBY. A recurrence of an old malady of mine, gentlemen. Landlady trouble. Don’t let anybody tell you there’s no housing shortage in this city. The housing problem is acute at this moment. I missed paying the rent just once—just once, mind you—and I’m on the street. Now that’s a situation that should never arise. And it occurs, not once, not twice, but over and over again. [He comes to the counter.]
IKE. You ought to be a mystic.
SOWERBY. If that would help I’ll be one. In fact, I am one.
IKE. It’ll help you to a cup of coffee.
MILKIN. Sure ting. Give us another coffee.
[Pete does so.]
IKE. Listen, you was going to tell me about that second sign, you know—I never saw that one.
MILKIN. Yeah, you seen it all right, but you didn’t recognize it. [He reaches for pencil and paper. Ike casually puts the change in his pocket.] See dat! Dat’s de second one! Oh, boy, dat is a sign!
IKE. What can you do with it?
MILKIN. Dat is a sign! Dat’s a black art sign! You wait!
SOWERBY. What do you mean, a black art sign?
IKE. We mean a black art sign, see? We’re mystics. Me and him.
SOWERBY. Tell me about it.
IKE. You wouldn’t know, see, you wouldn’t know.
MILKIN. We got de numbers, dat’s all.
IKE. See, we got the numbers.
MILKIN. We got de whole world’s number. We got three, five, seven, and nine, see, and one more.
IKE. And one more, see? That’s the real one.
SOWERBY. You can tell fortunes, I presume?
MILKIN. Dat’s de amateur game.
SOWERBY. All right. Tell me how the strike’s coming out.
MILKIN [scribbling rapidly]. I’ll tell you. Look at dat! See dat? It don’t look so good for de strike.
SOWERBY [pointing]. What’s that?
MILKIN [impressively]. See dat? [To Ike.] He picks dat one out. Dat’s de sign of three. And dat’s de sign of seven. And when dey comes togedder—it means deat’.
SOWERBY. Debt? I’m pretty deep in debt myself.
MILKIN. Deat’! Deat’ the leveller, deat’ the radical, deat’ the end of worldly glory!
SOWERBY. Death? Who’s going to die?
MILKIN. I can’t tell dat. Dat ain’t fair.
SOWERBY. But you know?
IKE. Sure we know.
MILKIN. I know. He don’t know. Not yet.
SOWERBY. You know, gentlemen, the older I become the less seriously I regard the deaths of other people—or even of myself. The fact that I have no place to sleep tonight bothers me a good deal, but if I were only going to die tonight—that is, without discomfort—I shouldn’t mind it in the least. The idea of death, philosophically regarded, is welcome to the mature mind.
[There is a sudden crash against the folding doors. Sowerby drops instantly under the table, and all eyes turn toward the disturbance. The doors open and Spiker can be heard speaking above the cries of “Put him out!” “Who told him he could talk?” “That’s all!” “He’s a Red!” “Back to Russia!”]
SPIKER. You’re compromisers, you’re lick-spittles, you’re wage-slaves, you’re finks—you haven’t got enough guts to demand what’s yours! I tell you—
A VOICE. Will you get the hell out?
SPIKER. I will not! I’m a member in good standing!
A VOICE. Back to Russia!
ANOTHER VOICE. All right, Mac!
[Spiker is thrust into the restaurant and the door is closed. He tries it futilely.]
IKE. This is the overflow meeting. Come on in. [Spiker turns to glare at Ike, then sits gloomily alone.] Lost anything?
SOWERBY [rising]. My—dignity.—Let me see—where was I? [He seats himself and picks up a tabloid paper.] Where was I?
IKE. You was saying before you got under the table that death was a matter of indifference to you.
SOWERBY. Exactly—exactly. And in a civilization such as ours that is as it should be. What does any one human life amount to? Look at this headline, for instance. “Paymaster killed, robbers escape with $28,000 belonging to Northfield Dock Company!”
[All eyes are suddenly turned toward Sowerby.]
MILKIN. I told you!
IKE. What’s that? That means the scabs didn’t get their pay today! Hey? [He picks up the paper.] Hey, do they know that in there? [He tries the doors.] The scabs don’t get their pay this week! [There is a sound of cheering from within.] That’s Mac talking. Hey, Mac—the scabs had bad luck! [The door opens in Ike’s face and a voice exclaims at him.]
THE VOICE. Sh! Shut up, will you?
IKE. Hey! All right! Jeez, it certainly was a swell afternoon for a holdup—all the cops were beating up the strikers. [He returns.] I wonder who got away with that $28,000?
SOWERBY. You ought to know. I thought you were a mystic.
IKE. I ain’t got to that. He knows.
SOWERBY [to Milkin]. Who was it?
MILKIN. Oh, no. Dat wouldn’t be for the best interest. To tell dat.
SOWERBY. I thought not.
[The folding doors open a crack, and Bauer, a selfimportant busybody, looks out, then emerges and closes it. While he holds the door open a fragment of Mac’s speech drifts out. He listens, shakes head, shows disapproval.]
MAC [within]. Compromise? Why certainly, when it’s necessary. Capitulate to Northfield? Why certainly, when he’s got us where he wants us! But, for God’s sake, why compromise now, when you don’t have to? Why capitulate when we’ve got him on the run? Don’t you know the mills are going out tomorrow? Within a week there won’t be a loom running!
[The door shuts off the rest.]
BAUER. It’s the last time Mac talks in there, if he knows it or not.
ROSALIE. What do you mean?
BAUER. Never mind. There was a little caucus before he came. He is just a little too wild. Also, Mr. Suvorin, we have had a meeting of the house committee this afternoon. You hear that? [Suvorin looks up at him without changing his expression.] We had a meeting of the house committee. It will affect you somewhat. The lyceum has given desk room to certain radical groups, without pay. Well, we have changed all that. No more desk room without pay. And—and no more desk room for radicals, for any price. No more I.W.W.’s, no more anarchists, only straight union activities.
SUVORIN. I understand.
BAUER. Also, Mr. Suvorin, in the past it has been the custom for radicals to meet here in your restaurant and talk. Well, this is a restaurant. It is open to the public. We cannot stop that. But it has been allowed for some time that they put literature on the shelf there—Macready and Bardi and Capraro—they have you all filled up with I.W.W. stuff and anarchist stuff—syndicalism, that sort. We want it out. And we want it out before closing time tonight. You see?
SUVORIN. I do.
BAUER. You will tell them?
SUVORIN. That’s your business, not mine.
ROSALIE. I’ll tell them, Mr. Bauer.
BAUER. Thank you, Miss Suvorin. We want that literature out of here tonight, tell ’em. We want nothing in this building but straight union literature. You never know when there’s going to be a raid. They raided the Zeitung right across the street. Well, why wouldn’t they raid you here if you’re distributing anarchist literature? [He goes to the shelf in the corner and picks up a book.] Here’s one. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity for Humanity! Is that I.W.W. or Anarchist?
SOWERBY. That goes back to the French Revolution.
BAUER. Revolution, huh?
SOWERBY. French Revolution.
BAUER. Anyway, we’ve had too much talk of revolution, no matter if it’s French. This should be a labor lyceum, not a hatchery for revolutions. [He takes up another book.] Here is a heavy one. [He reads.] “Certain Positive Aspects of the Negative Outcome of Philosophy.” Oh, I see.
SOWERBY. You’ll find some copies of the Declaration of Independence there. Dangerous stuff, too. Highly inflammatory. Suppressed by the police of Los Angeles and Boston.
BAUER. You would not kid me, for instance?
SOWERBY. Oh, no.
BAUER [looking at Sowerby’s books]. What’s this?
SOWERBY. If you will pardon me, these are my effects.
BAUER. Your effects?
SOWERBY. My, as it were, personal effects.
BAUER. Think of that now. [To Ike.] How about you—have you got desk room in the building?
IKE [turning away loftily and tapping with his foot]. No, my good man, no.
BAUER. What!
IKE [looking down his nose at Bauer]. No, my good man, no! [Bursting with rage, Bauer slams down one of Sowerby’s books and returns to his examination of the radical shelf.] Personally, I’d rather be a bum. I’d rather be an auctioneer. [He picks up Bauer’s hat, watching Bauer narrowly.] Ladies and gentlemen, before the regular auctioneer returns from lunch, what am I offered for this indescribable object? [Bauer turns, and Ike puts down the hat and quickly substitutes one of Sowerby’s slippers.] Ladies and gentlemen, in all my years as a broker in rare and curious objects, I have never—never—in fact— [He smells the slipper.] We withdraw that exhibit—we are forced to withdraw that exhibit—and we offer in its place this rare and original manuscriptum— [he takes up Sowerby’s manuscript] being the first and only extant draft of Sowerby’s History of—what was it you said you was writing a history of, Mr. Sowerby?
SOWERBY. I am writing a history, sir, of irrelevant and unimportant details.
IKE. Yes—of irrelevant and unimportant details. Would you mind describing a irrelevant detail, Mr. Sowerby? Mr. Sowerby, ladies and gentlemen, will now appear in person, describing a irrelevant detail! Mr. Sowerby!
[There is a sudden crash of applause, mingled with cheers and the stamping of feet from the auditorium. Sowerby, about to speak, instead slides under the table, rising at once when he realizes there is no danger. Voices are heard above the din yelling “The strike’s over! The strike’s over! Make it unanimous!” Macready, Ward, and Andy come through the folding doors, with a group of longshoremen, who pass through and out to the street, talking.]
WARD. I knew they’d do it!
MAC. We had to make a play for it anyway.
SPIKER. So it’s over, huh?
MAC. They think so.
ANDY. Yeah—they think so.
MAC. That’s the way it goes. You win a strike for ’em—have it all wrapped up and laid on the table like a Christmas present—and they’re afraid to take it! You’ve got to feed ’em higher wages like horse-medicine!
SPIKER. I guess that stops us.
MAC. No. Sorry they handled you rough, Spiker. I didn’t expect that.
SPIKER. What are you doing now?
MAC. Ask Andy. [He glances meaningly at Bauer.]
ANDY. I can tell you better later. I’m going upstairs.
MAC. Good. [Andy goes out by the hall door.] Engineers are meeting.
SPIKER. I get you.
BAUER. I see you have a little trouble, Mr. Macready.
MAC. That’s news to me. What’s the matter?
BAUER. I guess they blocked the strike for you, huh?
MAC [to Ward, paying no attention to Bauer]. By the way, can I get hold of Benny?
WARD. He’s going to call you here.
MAC. Good.
BAUER. I wish to speak to you, Mr. Macready.
MAC. Well, then, I’ll bet you do it.
BAUER. There was a meeting of the house committee this afternoon—
MAC. Yes?
BAUER. And it was decided to give the radical organizations no more desk room.
MAC. Well, well.
BAUER. It was decided you would have to go out—I.W.W.’s and Syndicalists—everybody but straight A.F. of L.
MAC. Who holds the mortgage on this building?
BAUER. That has nothing to do with it.
MAC. I thought not.
BAUER. So you will pardon me if I tell you we want you to take your literature and move out. I told the committee you would be out tonight.
MAC. I’m busy tonight.
BAUER. I said tonight. I told the committee tonight.
MAC. You said you’d put me out?
BAUER. I did.
MAC. Do you know I’m a longshoreman?
BAUER. You’re an I.W.W. You have been in this union two years and you have made nothing but trouble since you came. You are not a union man—and Bardi is not, and Capraro is not. You are out to make trouble. When one strike is over you start another, you three. And we have had enough of you!
MAC. I’ll tell you, Mr. Bauer, this looks to me like the start of a long conversation, and as I said, I’m busy—
BAUER. You will find out! You saw the way the vote went on your strike. Well, you were not here earlier in the evening. That was decided before hand. And we have talked about you and Bardi and Capraro. Capraro is an anarchist. I have heard him say so. And he is going out of the union. And your literature must be taken away tonight.
MAC. You throw it out. If you’re scared of a raid, throw it out. I hope they raid you and find enough Rights of Man around here to give the Department of Justice the heebie-jeebies.
BAUER. You will not take it away?
MAC. No.
BAUER. Very well. I will. [He goes out.]
IKE. Personally, I’d rather be a bum.
MAC. Where’s Capraro? Hasn’t he been around?
ROSALIE. No.
MAC. Nor Bardi?
ROSALIE. No.
MAC. That’s funny. Maybe they ran them in. We’d better find out.
ROSALIE. Don’t you know they’ve got warrants out for all of you? For instigating a riot?
WARD. That’s a good joke.
ROSALIE. It’s not a joke.
MAC. Well, no, not exactly. They didn’t mean it that way.
IKE. It’s in the paper. And did you know the scabs didn’t get paid today?
MAC. No, why? [Ward looks at the paper.]
IKE. Payroll was robbed. That’s in the paper, too.
MAC. Hell, Ike can read. When did this happen?
IKE. This afternoon. Got clean away with the money.
WARD. That’s good. That soaks Northfield and the scabs, too. Say, they killed old Kendall.
SPIKER. Who’s Kendall?
WARD. Paymaster.
MAC. Good day for a holdup. They had every policeman in town guarding the docks, and riot guns all up and down the harbor front.
ROSALIE. Mac, what did happen this afternoon?
MAC. Nothing. Only we tried to reestablish our picket lines, and somebody had squealed to the chief of police, so he met us with a young army. They started shooting over the boys’ heads and naturally there was hell to pay.
ROSALIE. But Mac, there were some policemen hurt—and the way the papers have it they blame everything on you—
MAC. I was hardly in it. I was a sort of an in-and-outer. Capraro and I were riding with Waterman in his car. We had to have him there so they couldn’t rush the boys off to jail without seeing a lawyer, and they’ve been trying to get Waterman, so he wouldn’t come unless he was guarded. And they tried to take him away from us, you see. That’s how I happened to grab the gun. They had it all planned. A cop jumps on the running board and tosses a gun into the car and then they start to arrest the bunch for carrying concealed weapons. I’ve seen that tried before, so I picked up the gun and beat it. That’s all.
ROSALIE. Then they made up the story about your starting it by knocking a policeman down.
MAC. I ran into him by accident.
ROSALIE. You could have let them arrest Waterman.
MAC. They were going to pull all three of us! We’d have been through the third degree by now and stretched out on the iron floor like so much sirloin steak. The way it is we’re all out of it. We’re all out of it—we can carry the strike right over to the mills tomorrow.
IKE. Maybe you didn’t hear that Bardi was hurt.
MAC. Bardi?
IKE. You didn’t hear that?
MAC. No.
SPIKER. He wasn’t hurt much. I saw him leaning up against the gates, and he said he’d be all right in a minute.
IKE. Oh, no. He was hurt bad.
MAC. Who told you?
IKE. Some fellow in there. He said Bardi was shot.
MAC. What?
IKE. Yeah, I thought you knew that.
MAC. Where did they take the boys that were hurt? [He rises.]
WARD. I don’t know.
[Capraro, a gentle young Italian, enters quietly from the street.]
MAC. Hello, Cappie. We were just talking about Bardi.
CAPRARO [after a pause]. Bardi is dead.
MAC. He is?
CAPRARO. I just came from the hospital.
MAC. Hell. So it had to happen to Bardi. Was he shot?
CAPRARO. Yes. They were careful to hit him where it would kill. He asked me to tell you good-bye for him. He was so sorry to die that way—in a hospital. He said—it means nothing this way. He said, please tell you all good-bye.
MAC. I see.
ROSALIE. And don’t you see pretty soon it will be your turn? Everybody knows what Northfield has said about all of you—
MAC. So it had to happen to little Bardi.
IKE. He was a good scout.
[A Salvation Army group begins to play and sing outside.]
THE ARMY.