Geert.
I won’t soil any more words over it. Only to let you know I remember. My father’s hair was grey, my mother’s hair is grey, Jelle, the poor devil who can’t find a place in the Old Men’s Home because on one occasion in his life he was light-fingered—Jelle has also grey hairs.
Bos.
Fine! Reasoning without head or tail. If you hear him or crooked Jacob, it’s the same cuckoo song. [To Kneir.] It’s come out, eh? But now I’ll give another word of advice, my friend, before you go under sail. You have an old mother, you expect to marry, good; you’ve been in prison six months—I won’t talk of that; you have barked out your insolence to me in your own house, but if you attempt any of this talk on board the Hope you’ll find out there is a muster roll.
Geert.
Every year old child knows that.
Bos.
When you’ve become older—and wiser—you’ll be ashamed of your insolence—“the ship owner by his warm stove, and his grog”——
Geert.