Bos.
For my part, sing, but a sensible sailor expecting to marry ought to appreciate it when his employer is looking out for his good. Your father was a thorough good man. Did he ever threaten his employer? You young fellows have no respect for grey hairs.
Geert.
Respect for grey hairs? By thunder, yes! for grey hairs that have become grey in want and misery——
Bos.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] Your mother’s seen me, as child, standing before the bait trays. I also have stood in an East wind that froze your ears, biting off bait heads——
Geert.
That’ll do. We don’t care for your stories, Meneer. You have become a rich man, and a tyrant. Good!—you are perhaps no worse than the rest, but don’t interfere with me in my own house. My father was a different sort. We may all become different, and perhaps my son may live to see the day when he will come, as I did, twelve years ago, crying to the office, to ask if there’s any news of his father and his two brothers! and not find their employer sitting by his warm fire and his strong box, drinking grog. He may not be damned for coming so often to ask the same thing, nor be turned from the door with snubs and the message, “When there’s anything to tell you’ll hear of it.”
Bos.
[Roughly.] You lie—I never did anything of the sort.