Nick You can’t beat that machine.

Willie Oh yeah?

The marbles fall, roll, and take their place. He pushes down the lever, placing one marble in position. Takes a very deep breath, walks in a small circle, excited at the beginning of great drama. Stands straight and pious before the contest. Himself versus the cunning and trickery of the novelty industry of America, and the whole challenging world. He is the last of the American pioneers, with nothing more to fight but the machine, with no other reward than lights going on and off, and six nickels for one. Before him is the last champion, the machine. He is the last challenger, the young man with nothing to do in the world. Willie grips the knob delicately, studies the situation carefully, draws the knob back, holds it a moment and then releases it. The first marble rolls out among the hazards, and the contest is on. At the very beginning of the play ‘The Missouri Waltz’ is coming from the phonograph. The music ends here. This is the signal for the beginning of the play. Joe suddenly comes out of his reverie. He whistles the way people do who are calling a cab that’s about a block away, only he does it quietly. Willie turns around, but Joe gestures for him to return to his work. Nick looks up from the Racing Form.

Joe (calling) Tom. (To himself.) Where the hell is he, every time I need him?

He looks around calmly: the nickel-in-the-slot phonograph in the corner; the open public telephone; the stage; the marble game; the bar; and so on. He calls again, this time very loud.

Hey, Tom.

Nick (with morning irritation) What do you want?

Joe (without thinking) I want the boy to get me a watermelon, that’s what I want. What do you want? Money, or love, or fame, or what? You won’t get them studying the Racing Form.

Nick I like to keep abreast of the times.

Tom comes hurrying in. He is a great big man of about thirty or so who appears to be much younger because of the childlike expression of his face; handsome, dumb, innocent, troubled, and a little bewildered by everything. He is obviously adult in years, but it seems as if by all rights he should still be a boy. He is defensive as clumsy, self-conscious, overgrown boys are. He is wearing a flashy cheap suit. Joe leans back and studies him with casual disapproval. Tom slackens his pace and becomes clumsy and embarrassed, waiting for the bawling-out he’s pretty sure he’s going to get.

Joe (objectively, severely, but a little amused) Who saved your life?

Tom (sincerely) You did, Joe. Thanks.

Joe (interested) How’d I do it?

Tom (confused) What?

Joe (even more interested) How’d I do it?

Tom Joe, you know how you did it.

Joe (softly) I want you to answer me. How’d I save your life? I’ve forgotten.

Tom (remembering, with a big sorrowful smile) You made me eat all that chicken soup three years ago when I was sick and hungry.