Sexton. Four--of whom?

Windrank. How about the tapster? Shouldn't he be counted, too?

Sexton. Hush, man! That's only nights.

(Both stumble over the broken image of St. Nicolaus and fall
down.)

Windrank. Mercy! Ghosts! Jesu Maria, help!

Sexton (rising and picking up the image). Well, if that isn't
enough to make your hair stand on end! Here's St. Nicolaus broken
all to pieces and swimming in the beer. It has come to a fine
pass when divine things are defiled like that--I don't think the
world will last much longer--when such things can be done in the
dry tree--

Windrank (having recovered). In the wet one, you mean.

Sexton. Keep still, blasphemer! St. Nicolaus is my patron saint.
I was born on his day.

Windrank. That's probably why both of you like beer.

Sexton. Yes, it's in the fashion now to be heretical!

Windrank. It's in the air, I think, for otherwise I'm a most
God-fearing man. But never mind, I'll have St. Nicolaus glued