Daan.
Thank God?—Not me—sailed from my tenth year—voyages—more than you could count—suffered shipwreck—starvation—lost two sons at sea—no—no. I say the matron is a beast—I’d like to slap her jaw.
Clem.
That will do! This is no dive.
Daan.
I know that, but it makes your gorge rise. I wasn’t allowed to go out last week because, begging your pardon, I missed and spat beside the sand box. Now I ask, would you spit beside a box on purpose? An old man’s home is a jail—and when they’ve shut you up, in one of them, decent, they’re rid of you. Wish the sharks had eaten me before I quit sailing.
Cob.
[Giggling.] He! he! he! Man, the sharks wouldn’t eat you—you were too tough for them.
Clem.
Keep your lips still!