I knew you’d understand. What finished me was this last business of someone selling out. How can you believe anything after a thing like that happens? It knocks you cold! You don’t know what the hell is what! You’re through!

Appealingly.

You know how I feel, don’t you, Larry?

LARRY stares at him, moved by sympathy and pity in spite of himself, disturbed, and resentful at being disturbed, and puzzled by something he feels about parritt that isn’t right. But before he can reply, hugo suddenly raises his head from his arms in a half awake alcoholic daze and speaks.

HUGO

Quotes aloud to himself in a guttural declamatory style. “The days grow hot, O Babylon! ’Tis cool beneath thy villow trees!” parritt turns startledly as hugo peers muzzily without recognition at him. hugo exclaims automatically in his tone of denunciation. Gottammed stool pigeon!

PARRITT

Shrinks away—stammers.

What? Who do you mean?

Then furiously.

You lousy bum, you can’t call me that!

He draws back his fist.

HUGO

Ignores this—recognizing him now, bursts into his childish teasing giggle.

Hello, leedle Don! Leedle monkey-face. I did not recognize you. You have grown big boy. How is your mother? Where you come from?

He breaks into his wheedling, bullying tone.

Don’t be a fool! Loan me a dollar! Buy me a trink!

As if this exhausted him, he abruptly forgets it and plumps his head down

on his arms again and is asleep.

PARRITT

With eager relief.

Sure, I’ll buy you a drink, Hugo. I’m broke, but I can afford one for you. I’m sorry I got sore. I ought to have remembered when you’re soused you call everyone a stool pigeon. But it’s no damned joke right at this time.

He turns to larry, who is regarding him now fixedly with an uneasy expression as if he suddenly were afraid of his own thoughts—forcing a smile.

Gee, he’s passed out again.

He stiffens defensively.

What are you giving me the hard look for? Oh, I know. You thought I was going to hit him? What do you think I am? I’ve always had a lot of respect for Hugo. I’ve always stood up for him when people in the Movement panned him for an old drunken has-been. He had the guts to serve ten years in the can in his own country and get his eyes ruined in solitary. I’d like to see some of them here stick that. Well, they’ll get a chance now to show—Hastily.

I don’t mean—But let’s forget that. Tell me some more about this dump. Who are all these tanks? Who’s that guy trying to catch pneumonia?

He indicates LEWIS.

LARRY

Stares at him almost frightenedly—then looks away and grasps eagerly this chance to change the subject. He begins to describe the sleepers with sardonic relish but at the same time showing his affection for them.

That’s Captain Lewis, a one-time hero of the British Army. He strips to display that scar on his back he got from a native spear whenever he’s completely plastered. The bewhiskered bloke opposite him is General Wetjoen, who led a commando in the War. The two of them met when they came here to work in the Boer War spectacle at the St. Louis Fair and they’ve been bosom pals ever since. They dream the hours away in happy dispute over the brave days in South Africa when they tried to murder each other. The little guy between them was in it, too, as correspondent for some English paper. His nickname here is Jimmy Tomorrow. He’s the leader of our Tomorrow Movement.

PARRITT

What do they do for a living?

LARRY

As little as possible.