THE FIGURE. [To Andrew.] You're a mite back'ard in wages, ain't ye?
ANDREW. Nine months. What of that?
THE FIGURE. That's what I dropped round for. Seems like when a man's endoored and fit, like you have, for his country, and calc'lates he'll quit, he ought to be takin' a little suthin' hom' for Thanksgivin'. So I fetched round your pay.
ANDREW. My pay! You?
THE FIGURE. Yes; I'm the paymaster.
ELLEN. [Coming forward, eagerly.] Andy! The money, is it?
THE FIGURE. [Bows with a grave, old-fashioned stateliness.] Your sarvent, ma'am!
ANDREW. [Speaking low.] Keep back, Nell. [To The Figure.] You—you were saying——
THE FIGURE. I were about to say how gold bein' scarce down to the Treasury, I fetched ye some s'curities instead; some national I.O.U.'s, as ye might say. [He takes out an old powder-horn, and rattles it quietly.] That's them. [Pouring from the horn into his palm some glistening, golden grains.] Here they be.
ELLEN. [Peering, with Joel.] Gold, Andy!