People returning from the harbor. There’s a corpse aboard the Anna.
Bos.
Pieterse’s steam trawler—The deuce! Who is it?
Kneir.
I don’t know. I’m going to find out.
[Both go off—the stage remains empty—a vague murmur of voices outside. Fishermen, in conversation, pass the window. Sound of a tolling church bell. Geert sneaks inside through the door at left. Throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief. Looks cautiously into the bedsteads, the cooking shed, peers through the window, then muttering he plumps down in a chair by the table, rests his head on his hand, rises again; savagely takes a loaf of bread from the back cupboard, cuts off a hunk. Walks back to chair, chewing, lets the bread fall; wrathfully stares before him. The bell ceases to toll.]
Bar.
[From the cooking shed.] Who’s there?—Geert!—[Entering.]
Geert.