(During the speech, the door opens slowly and Jake lounges in. He is a slight, pale youth, Hebraic, thin-lipped, eager-eyed. His hands are in his pockets, his narrow shoulders drawn forward. At the end of Chris’ speech he applauds softly)

JAKE: Bravo! You’ve learned the patter well. Talk like the fellows at the Socialist meetings.

DAN and LUCY: Socialist meetings!

CHRIS: (defiantly) Well?

DAN: Oh, nothing; it explains. All right, go on—any more?

JAKE: Guess he’s said all he’s got breath for. I’ll go; it’s too muggy in here. What’s the row?

CHRIS: I’m drafted.

JAKE: Get exempt. Easy—if you don’t want to go. As for me—

(Door opens, and Mrs. O’Neill bustles in. She is in deep mourning, plump, Irish, shrewd-looking, bright-eyed)

MRS. O’NEILL: Lucy, they do be sayin’ as how down by the chain stores they be a raid on the potatoes, an’ ef ye’er wantin’ some, ye’d better be after gittin’ into yer things an’ comin’ wid me. I kin kape the crowd off yer game foot—an’ what’s the matter wid youse all?

LUCY: Oh, Mrs. O’Neill, Chris has got to go to war.

MRS. O’NEILL: An’ ef he has, what of it? Ye’ll starve, that’s all.

DAN: Starve? Never! He’ll go, we’ll live.

(Lucy wrings her hands impotently. Mrs. O’Neill drops a protecting arm about the girl’s shoulder)

MRS. O’NEILL: An’ it’s hard it seems to yer? But they took me man from me year before last, an’ he wint afore I came over here, an’ it’s a widder I am wid me five kiddies, an’ I’ve niver a word to say but—

CHRIS: He went to fight for his own. What do they do for my people? They don’t want us, except in extremity. They treat us like—like—like—

JAKE: Like Jews in Russia, eh?

(He slouches forward, then his frame straightens itself electrically)

Like Jews in Russia, eh? Denied the right of honor in men, eh? Or the right of virtue in women, eh? There isn’t a wrong you can name that your race has endured that mine has not suffered, too. But there’s a future, Chris—a big one. We younger ones must be in that future—ready for it, ready for it—

(His voice trails off, and he sinks despondently into a chair)

CHRIS: Future? Where? Not in this country? Where?

(The door opens and Julia rushes in impulsively. She is small, slightly built, eager-eyed, light-brown skin, wealth of black hair; full of sudden shyness)

JULIA: Oh, Chris, someone has just told me—I was passing by—one of the girls said your number was called. Oh, Chris, will you have to go?

(She puts her arms up to Chris’ neck; he removes them gently, and makes a slight gesture toward Dan’s chair)

JULIA: Oh, I forgot. Dan, excuse me. Lucy, it’s terrible, isn’t it?

CHRIS: I’m not going, Julia.

MRS. O’NEILL: Not going!

DAN: Our men have always gone, Chris. They went in 1776.

CHRIS: Yes, as slaves. Promised a freedom they never got.

DAN: No, gladly, and saved the day, too, many a time. Ours was the first blood shed on the altar of National liberty. We went in 1812, on land and sea. Our men were through the struggles of 1861—

CHRIS: When the Nation was afraid not to call them. Didn’t want ’em at first.

DAN: Never mind; they helped work out their own salvation. And they were there in 1898—

CHRIS: Only to have their valor disputed.

DAN: —And they were at Carrizal, my boy, and now—

MRS. O’NEILL: An’ sure, wid a record like that—ah, ’tis me ould man who said at first ’twasn’t his quarrel. His Oireland bled an’ the work of thim divils to try to make him a traitor nearly broke his heart—but he said he’d go to do his bit—an’ here I am.