Sunday—Sunday—If you hadn’t eaten anything for six months but rye bread, rats, horse beans—I’m too weak to set one foot before the other. Stop your talk—Hurry up! and—and a piece of cheese—I feel like eating myself into a colic. Hahaha! Shall I take another wee drop?
[Barend goes off.]
Jo.
No.
Geert.
Good, not another drop. Is there any tobacco?
Jo.
God!—I’m glad to see you cheerful again. Yes, there’s some tobacco left—in the jar.
Geert.
That’s good. Fine! Is that my old pipe?