Daan.
I say time’s up. We eat at four and the matron is strict.
Clem.
That will be necessary with you old fellows.
Daan.
Peh! We’ve a lot to bring in, haven’t we? An Old Man’s Home is a jail—scoldings with your feed—as if y’r a beggar. Coffee this morning like the bottom of the rain barrel—and peas as hard as y’r corns.
Clem.
If I were in your place—keep your mouth still—I’d thank God my old age was provided for.
Cob.
Tja—tja—I don’t want to blaspheme, but—