What right had you to think—better be thinking of going to sea again to earn your Mother’s bread.
Bar.
That’s none of your business.
Cob.
Just hear his insolence to me—when he’s too bashful to open his mouth to others. [Taunting.] I’m not afraid—he-he-he!—No, I don’t get the belly ache when I must go to sea—he-he-he!
Daan.
Come along now. It’s struck four.
Clem.
Ten o’clock tomorrow, Cobus.
Daan.