Towards the end of the day, when evening was coming on, he would sometimes visit the tavern on the road to Bruges, there to rinse his charcoal-blackened throat with a draught of cuyte; and then the women standing at their doorways to sniff the evening dew would cry out to him in friendly greeting:
“A good night and a good drink to you, Charcoal-burner.”
“A good night to you, and a lively husband!” Claes would reply.
And sometimes the girls, trooping home together from their work in the fields, would line up in front of him right across the road, barring his way.
“What will you give us for the right of passage?” they would cry. “A scarlet ribbon, a buckle of gold, a pair of velvet slippers, or a florin piece for alms?”
But Claes, holding one of the girls fast by the waist, would give her a hearty kiss on her fresh cheek or on her neck, just whichever happened to be nearest, and then he would say:
“You must ask the rest, my dears, of your sweethearts.”
And off they would go amidst peals of laughter.
As for the children, they always recognized Claes by his loud voice and by the noise his clogs made on the road, and they would run up to him and cry:
“Good evening, Charcoal-burner.”