On the embankment, Joel, with a gun, paces back and forth, a blanket thrown about his shoulders.
JOEL. [With a singing call.] Four o'clock!—All's well!
[Jumping down from the embankment, he approaches the fire.
ANDREW. By God, Joel, it's bitter.
JOEL. [Rubbing his hands over the coals.] A mite sharpish.
ANDREW. [Looks up eagerly.] What?
JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'.
ANDREW. [Sinks back, gloomily.] Oh! [A pause.] I wondered you should agree with me. You meant the weather. I meant—
[A pause again.
JOEL. Well, Andy, what'd you mean?