ted to him than the apron he wears. Neither his voice nor his general manner dispel this illusion which has made him a personage of the water front. They are soft and bland. But beneath all his mildness one senses the man behind the mask--cynical, callous, hard as nails. He is lounging at ease behind the bar, a pair of spectacles on his nose, reading an evening paper.
Two longshoremen enter from the street, wearing their working aprons, the button of the union pinned conspicuously on the caps pulled sideways on their heads at an aggressive angle.
FIRST LONGSHOREMAN--[As they range themselves at the bar.] Gimme a shock. Number Two. [He tosses a coin on the bar.]
SECOND LONGSHOREMAN--Same here. [Johnny sets two glasses of barrel whiskey before them.]
FIRST LONGSHOREMAN--Here's luck! [The other nods. They gulp down their whiskey.]
SECOND LONGSHOREMAN--[Putting money on the bar.] Give us another.
FIRST LONGSHOREMAN--Gimme a scoop this time--lager and porter. I'm dry.