BOS. For my part, sing, but a sensible sailor expecting to marry ought to appreciate it when his employer is looking out for his good. Your father was a thorough good man. Did he ever threaten his employer? You young fellows have no respect for grey hairs.
GEERT. Respect for grey hairs? By thunder, yes! for grey hairs that have become grey in want and misery----
BOS. [Shrugging his shoulders.] Your mother's seen me, as child, standing before the bait trays. I also have stood in an East wind that froze your ears, biting off bait heads----
GEERT. That'll do. We don't care for your stories, Meneer. You have become a rich man, and a tyrant. Good!--you are perhaps no worse than the rest, but don't interfere with me in my own house. My father was a different sort. We may all become different, and perhaps my son may live to see the day when he will come, as I did, twelve years ago, crying to the office, to ask if there's any news of his father and his two brothers! and not find their employer sitting by his warm fire and his strong box, drinking grog. He may not be damned for coming so often to ask the same thing, nor be turned from the door with snubs and the message, "When there's anything to tell you'll hear of it."
BOS. [Roughly.] You lie--I never did anything of the sort.
GEERT. I won't soil any more words over it. Only to let you know I remember. My father's hair was grey, my mother's hair is grey, Jelle, the poor devil who can't find a place in the Old Men's Home because on one occasion in his life he was light-fingered--Jelle has also grey hairs.
BOS. Fine! Reasoning without head or tail. If you hear him or crooked Jacob, it's the same cuckoo song. [To Kneir.] It's come out, eh? But now I'll give another word of advice, my friend, before you go under sail. You have an old mother, you expect to marry, good; you've been in prison six months--I won't talk of that; you have barked out your insolence to me in your own house, but if you attempt any of this talk on board the Hope you'll find out there is a muster roll.
BOS. When you've become older--and wiser--you'll be ashamed of your insolence--"the ship owner by his warm stove, and his grog"----
BOS. [Hotly.] And his cares, you haven't the wits to understand! Who feeds you all?