Tom (delighted) All right.

They both begin to fold gum into their mouths.

Kit Carson I’ll referee. Now, one at a time. How many you got?

Joe Six.

Kit Carson All right. Let Tom catch up with you.

Joe (while Tom’s catching up) Did you give a dollar to a newskid?

Tom Yeah, sure.

Joe What’d he say?

Tom Thanks.

Joe What sort of a kid was he?

Tom Little, dark kid. I guess he’s Italian.

Joe Did he seem pleased?

Tom Yeah.

Joe That’s good. Did you give a dollar to an old man?

Tom Yeah.

Joe Was he pleased?

Tom Yeah.

Joe Good. How many you got in your mouth?

Tom Six.

Joe All right. I got six, too.

Folds one more in his mouth. Tom folds one too.

Kit Carson Seven. Seven each.

They each fold one more into their mouths, very solemnly, chewing them into the main hunk of gum.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Joe (delighted) Always wanted to do this. (He picks up one of the magazines.) Let’s see what’s going on in the world. (He turns the pages and keeps folding gum into his mouth and chewing.)

Kit Carson Eleven. Twelve.

Kit Carson continues to count while Joe and Tom continue the contest. In spite of what they are doing, each is very serious.

Tom Joe, what’d you want to move Kitty into the St Francis Hotel for?

Joe She’s a better woman than any of them tramp society dames that hang around that lobby.

Tom Yeah, but do you think she’ll feel at home up there?

Joe Maybe not at first, but after a couple of days she’ll be all right. A nice big room. A bed for sleeping in. Good clothes. Good food. She’ll be all right, Tom.

Tom I hope so. Don’t you think she’ll get lonely up there with nobody to talk to?

Joe (looking at Tom sharply, almost with admiration, pleased but severe) There’s nobody anywhere for her to talk to – except you.

Tom (amazed and delighted) Me, Joe?

Joe (while Tom and Kit Carson listen carefully, Kit with great appreciation) Yes, you. By the grace of God, you’re the other half of that girl. Not the angry woman that swaggers into this waterfront dive and shouts because the world has kicked her around. Anybody can have her. You belong to the little kid in Ohio who once dreamed of living. Not with her carcass, for money, so she can have food and clothes, and pay rent. With all of her. I put her in that hotel, so she can have a chance to gather herself together again. She can’t do that in the New York Hotel. You saw what happens there. There’s nobody anywhere for her to talk to, except you. They all make her talk like a whore. After a while, she’ll believe them Then she won’t be able to remember. She’ll get lonely. Sure. People can get lonely for misery, even. I want her to go on being lonely for you, so she can come together again the way she was meant to be from the beginning. Loneliness is good for people. Right now it’s the only thing for Kitty. Any more liquorice?