KEN.  That’s too bad.  All right.  Tell us what you think.

MARTIN.  I think you ought to go home and sleep it off and then go back on the job.

KEN.  Ain’t got no job.

MARTIN.  Well, I mean go back to Prescott.

KEN.  Didn’t you hear?  There is no Prescott.  There is no job.

MARTIN.  Yes, but there’s work.  And work is more important than the matter of who pays for it.

KEN.  Work for the wastebasket?

MARTIN.  No.  Not for the wastebasket.  For whatever use it may be to the world.  Your work is important because you are creating something.  The pay system has stalled on you, so what?  If your father is able to help to keep you at work, the best you can do is to accept it.

KEN.  Have you gone screwy? [To TIPPY.] IS that Communism?

MARTIN.  I believe in revolutions, not in futile personal rebellions.

KEN. [To TIPPY.] Do you get him?

TIPPY.  I think so.

KEN.  For God’s sake, do you agree with him?

TIPPY.  Listen, old man, you believe in those plans of yours ...

KEN.  No.  I don’t believe in anything, in anything, do you hear?  Not in the love of a father for his son, or in the love of a wife for her husband, or in the loyalty of friends—­or in the integrity of one’s purposes, or in the sincerity of one’s hopes, or in the greatness of one’s ambitions.

TIPPY.  That’s how you feel now, Ken

MARTIN.  You know doggone well you believe in your work.  You love it.  You live it.

KEN. [Quietly.] So you think I ought to call up Prescott and apologize.  Is that it?

MARTIN.  Why not?  A son of a bitch like Prescott? [A moment’s silence.]

KEN. [To TIPPY.] And you! [To his father.] And you, of course ... [To LAURA.] And you ...

LAURA. [Breathlessly.] You must do whatever you like.

KEN.  All right, I won’t hold you responsible.

LAURA.  I only meant ...  I can take care of myself and ...

KEN.  And of me, too.

LAURA.  No, Ken ...  I ... [The BISHOP stops her.]

KEN.  So you all think I ought to apologize to Mr. Prescott.  That’s great. [Into telephone.] Circle 7-6799 ...  That’s great ... [Into telephone.] Mr. Kenneth Holden would like to speak with his employer, Mr. Stanley Prescott. [Plainly.] The name is Holden.  That’s right.—­What do I want?  I want to apologize.  Tell him I want to apologize. [Pause.] Hello, Mr. Prescott?  This is Kenneth Holden.  I called up to apologize. [His voice is still high.] I called you up earlier in the evening, Mr. Prescott, and criticized our working arrangement.  Well, sir, I have become convinced that the work is more important than the arrangement, so with your kind permission ... [Listens, as to an interruption.  His confident manner slowly disappears.  He listens with growing humiliation.] I’m sorry, sir.  I didn’t mean to use that tone.  Yes—­I mean it.—­Yes, sir.... [Almost in a whisper.] Thank you. [Slowly, with an air of absolute defeat, he hangs up the receiver.]