JOEL. [With a snigger.] Gold—nothin'! That's corn—just Injun corn. Ha!
THE FIGURE. [Bowing gravely.] It's the quality, ma'am, what counts, as ye might say.
JOEL. [Behind his hand.] His top-loft leaks!
THE FIGURE. These here karnels, now, were give' me down Plymouth way, in Massachusetts, the fust Thanksgivin' seems like I can remember. 'Twa'n't long after the famine we had thar. Me bein' some hungry, the red-folks fetched a hull-lot o' this round, with the compliments of their capting—what were his name now?—Massasoit. This here's the last handful on't left. Thought ye might like some, bein' Thanksgivin'.
JOEL. [In a low voice, to Ellen.] His screws are droppin' out. Come and pack. We've got to mark time and skip.
THE FIGURE. [Without looking at Joel.] Eight or ten minutes still to spare, boys. The sergeant said—wait till ye hear his jew's-harp playin' of that new war tune, The Star-Spangled Banner. Then ye'll know the coast's clear.
JOEL. Gad, that's right, I remember now.
[He draws Ellen away to the knapsack, which they begin to pack. Andrew has never removed his eyes from the tall form in the cloak.
[Now, as The Figure pours back the yellow grains from his palm into the powder-horn, he speaks, hesitatingly.
ANDREW. I think—I'd like some.