JUHASZ—By this? This is a photograph.
MATE—Of my father. The picture of my poor old father.
JUHASZ—But this is a photograph of the actor, Girardi.
MATE—They resemble each other a lot. Everybody says so.
JUHASZ—[_Thoughtfully._] Hum! And what does this prove?
MATE—That he’s the one ... I sent the dirty money to.
JUHASZ—[_Undeceived._] No, Mate. You are lying to me. [_Returns the
photograph to him._] This is unpardonable.... They were perfectly right
in what they said about you. [_Looks at his watch._] You are dismissed,
Mate ... and now you may go. [_Does not trust himself to look at MATE,
but gives him a shove toward the door._]
MATE—[_Kisses the photograph._] Poor father! Who’ll send you money now
... the first of every month?
JUHASZ—[_Greatly distressed._] Please ... stop that ... and go!
MATE—And my poor little girl ... who’ll feed her now?
JUHASZ—You have a child, too?... I don’t want to hear about it.
MATE—I didn’t say anything to you. [_Starts to go._] My poor, sick little
girl!
JUHASZ—[_Restrains him; greatly distressed._] Is she ill?
MATE—What do you care?
JUHASZ—How old is she?
MATE—[_Dries his eyes._] Two years old. Her mother is dead. We planted
flowers on her grave.
JUHASZ—This is harrowing.... I know you are lying again.... I mustn’t
listen to you. [_Looks at his watch._]
MATE—A little blonde baby. With hair like flax.
JUHASZ—Ten-thirty-six. You are dismissed. [_Puts his hands over his
ears._]
MATE—She always says to me, “Papa ... Papa send money.”
JUHASZ—I’m not listening to you.... You are lying.... But I can’t hear
you.
MATE—My poor innocent angel. Her medicines alone cost me.... Oh, how
_can_ a man go straight when he has a crippled father and a sick baby to
keep?
JUHASZ—[_Takes his hands from his ears._] I didn’t hear you.... You are
dismissed.
MATE—The doctor prescribed sulphur for her ... and milk.
JUHASZ—I’m not listening.
MATE—No.... But I wish I knew how to close my ears when my poor hungry
baby cries, “Papa, papa....”
JUHASZ—[_At the end of his endurance._] Liar!... You are dismissed....
[_Reconsiders it, angrily._] You are not dismissed! Oh, how can I tell
whether you are lying or not?
MATE—[_Low, reproachfully._] Oh, Mr. Juhasz!
JUHASZ—[_Angrily._] Be still! [_Less angrily._] Sit down. [_Less angrily
yet._] Have a cigarette.
MATE—[_Drying his eyes._] I only smoke cigars.
JUHASZ—[_Crossly pushes the humidor toward him._] There! [_MATE takes
one._] Not those.... [_Shouts._] Take a Havana. [_MATE sticks several in
his pocket._] Stop that crying.... And tell me instead, whether you are
lying to me or not.
MATE—[_Snivelling._] When all a man earns is eighty kronen a month....
JUHASZ—I know, I know.
MATE—And has to send forty to his father, and thirty to his sick boy....
[_as JUHASZ makes a gesture of surprise_] I mean girl ... what has he got
left? Ten kronen! Can you live on ten kronen a month?
JUHASZ—It’s terrible, I know.... Mate.... [_Scratches his head in
bewilderment._] I wish I knew what to do.
MATE—If I had anything left to pawn ... but I haven’t.
JUHASZ—[_Feels involuntarily for his watch chain._] If I had any money
myself.... But just at present ... I regret to say....
MATE—[_His eyes fixed on JUHASZ’S chain._] If I had a watch ... or a
chain....
JUHASZ—[_Takes out his watch._] What’s the matter with your baby?
MATE—It’s anæmic.