DEACON ROBERTS. [Giving his hat a final wipe.] Nay, nay, not for me, Hughie lad! Come, come, brush the smoke of burnin' Babylon from your eyes! In a minute I must be goin' back to my study, whatever. An' I have need of food!
[Hugh takes a chair and mounts it. The Deacon looks at Hugh's back, puts his hand down on the counter, and picks up an egg from the basket. He holds it to the light and squints through it to see whether it is fresh. Then he turns it lovingly over in his fat palm, makes a dexterous backward motion and slides it into his coat-tail pocket. This he follows with two more eggs for same coat-tail and three for other—in all half a dozen.
HUGH. [Dreamily pointing to tin.] Is it Yankee corn?
DEACON ROBERTS. [To Hugh's back, and slipping in second egg.] Nay, nay, not that, Hughie lad, that tin above!
HUGH. [Absent-mindedly touching tin.] Is it ox tongue?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in third egg and not even looking up.] Ox tongue, lad? Nay, nuthin' so large as that.
HUGH. [Dreamily reaching up higher.] American condensed m-m-milk? Yiss, that's what it is.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in fourth egg.] Condensed milk, Hughie? Back to infants' food again.
HUGH. [Stretching up almost to his full length and holding down tin with tips of long white finger.] Kippert herrin'? Is it that?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in fifth egg.] Nay, nay, a little further up, if you please.