They were silent.
The door opened and from behind the screen came a great big fellow with a black beard:
“What’s up here? A whole gathering of people: is it harvest-treat to-day, Zalia? Why, here’s Barbara and Mite and....”
“Warten, Zeen is ill.”
“Zeen?... Ill?”
“Yes, ill, man, and we’re sitting up.”
Warten opened wide eyes, flung the box which he carried over his shoulder by a leather strap to the ground and sat down on it:
“Ha! So Zeen’s ill... he’s not one of the youngest either.”
“Seventy-five.”
They were silent. The womenfolk drank their coffee. Warten fished out a pipe and tobacco from under his blue smock and sat looking at the rings of smoke that wound up to the ceiling.