ANDREW. But there were some——
THE FIGURE. Thar was some as didn't—yes; and thar's some as don't to-day. Those be the folks on my pay-roll. Why, look a-here: I calc'late I wouldn't fetch much on the beauty counter. My talk ain't rhyme stuff, nor the Muse o' Grammar wa'n't my schoolma'am. Th' ain't painter nor clay-sculptor would pictur' me jest like I stand. For the axe has hewed me, and the plough has furrered; and the arnin' of gold by my own elbow-grease has give' me the shrewd eye at a bargain. I manure my crops this side o' Jordan, and as for t'other shore, I'd ruther swap jokes with the Lord than listen to his sarmons. And yet for the likes o' me, jest for to arn my wages—ha, the many, many boys and gals that's gone to their grave-beds, and when I a-closed their eyes, the love-light was shinin' thar.
ANDREW. [Who has listened with awe.] What are you? What are you?
THE FIGURE. Me? I'm the paymaster.
ANDREW. I want to serve you—like those others.
THE FIGURE. Slow, slow, boy! Nobody sarves me.
ANDREW. But they died for you—the others.
THE FIGURE. No, 'twa'n't for me; 'twas for him as pays the wages; the one as works through me—the one higher up. I'm only the paymaster; kind of a needful makeshift—his obedient sarvant.
ANDREW. [With increasing curiosity, seeks to peer in The Figure's face.] But the one up higher—who is he?
THE FIGURE. [Turning his head away.] Would ye sarve him, think, if ye heerd his voice?