Cob.
Snooper? No, you’d never guess how I got it. Less than ten minutes ago I met Bos the ship-owner, and he gave me—he gave me a little white roll—of—of tissue paper with tobacco inside. What do you call the things?
Marietje.
Cigarettes.
Cob.
Yes, catch me smoking a thing like that in—in paper—that’s a chew with a shirt on.
Saart.
And you’re a crosspatch without a shirt. No, I’m not going to sit down.
Jo.
It’s already poured out.