Yes, if it hadn’t been for Harlemmer oil I might not have been a widow. I could marry again!
Clementine.
How odd!
Jo.
You must hear her talk. Come, drink faster!
Saart.
I’m full to the brim! What are you staring at Kneir? That’s just the wind. Now, then, my man was a comical chap. Never was another like him. I’d bought him a knife in a leather sheath, paid a good price for it too, and when he’d come back in five weeks and I’d ask him: “Jacob, have you lost your knife?” he’d say, “I don’t know about my knife—you never gave me a knife.” He was that scatter-brained. But when he’d undress himself for the first time in five weeks, and pulled off his rubber boots, bang, the knife would fall on the floor. He hadn’t felt it in all that time.
Clementine.
Didn’t take off his rubber boots in five weeks?
Saart.