MARTIN. [Shouting with laughter.] Hey!  Don’t plagiarize Marx.

KEN, Marx?

MARTIN.  Karl Marx; you’re stealing his thunder.  That’s what the man wrote his big book about.  Only—­you see it for one man and a few months.  Marx saw it for all humanity for all time.

LAURA.  They’re at it again.  The dear little schoolboys.—­Tippy, how does one make them grow up?

TIPPY.  Opinions differ.  Bobby Benson says Mother’s Oats and Buck Rogers says Cocomalt.  What do you give Ken for breakfast?

KEN.  I say, what’s Ted doing?

TIPPY.  About the same.

KEN.  Still looking for book bargains?

TIPPY.  They get harder and harder to sell.

KEN.  The trouble with you fellows is you encourage Ted in his weakness.  Someone ought to put it to him straight.  The man doesn’t realize where he’s drifting.

MARTIN.  Yes—­well—­that’s his business.

KEN.  You fellows are afraid to talk to him.

LAURA.  What is there to say to him?

KEN.  Say to him?  Say to him that the least he could do is to apply for relief work.

MARTIN. [Pointedly.] Ken, you’re welcome to your opinion.  But I’d advise you not to say anything to Ted about relief.

KEN.  Why not?  There’s no disgrace in relief work.  You’d be surprised how many ...

MARTIN. [Shortly.] We know as many nice people on relief as you do.

KEN.  I said relief work, not relief.

MARTIN.  What’s the difference?

LAURA.  Why, Martin, there’s a big difference!

MARTIN.  Sure there is.  Plain reliefers can sit on the benches.  Relief workers have shovels to lean on.  It’s a true class distinction.

KEN.  There are lots of loafers and piddling projects,—­but the government’s also doing some big jobs, some real construction work.

TIPPY.  Martin wrote a song about that.

LAURA.  Really?  Have you turned composer, Martin?

MARTIN.  Just some new words on an old tune.

LAURA.  Oh, let’s hear it.

MARTIN.  After dinner.

LAURA.  No, I can’t wait.  You sing it for us now, then after dinner we can all sing it. [She picks up guitar and thrusts it at him.] Come on, Lyric Writer, tune up.

KEN. [Tolerantly.] Sure let’s hear it.

MARTIN. [Singing.]
        Then little Andy Lang of the Lake Shore gang
        Said, “Boys, you know I’m countin’
        Each day and week until I see

ALL.  The Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

MARTIN.  Oh the Big Rock Candy Mountain
        Stands on a plain of bread. 
        Our Uncle’s got to feed us
        Or soon we’ll all be dead. 
        The more and more he feeds us
        The sooner we’ll be red
        So serve the soup
        With a great big whoop
        And promise pie
        Up in the sky
        On the Big Rock Candy Mountain.