sufferings_. VAIN WOMAN _sinks dejectedly into the chair vacated by
the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN.
[_A knock is heard at the street-door. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _and
the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _start forward eagerly, expecting the_
JUDGE. _Even the_ VAIN WOMAN, _seeing the others rise, gets to her
feet hopefully_. IMP _hastily slides from his desk and, pulling
down his tight little jacket and cocking his round little cap a
little more over one eye, goes to see who knocks. A messenger hands
him a letter and silently departs._
IMP. [_Importantly._] Letter for me from the Judge.
FORMER POOR MAN. A letter! Why doesn't he come himself?
FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Send for him, boy.
IMP. [_Grins at_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _in an insolent manner_.] Well,
well, I wonder what the Judge is writing to me for. It's queer he would
send me a letter.
[_He looks the letter over carefully, both sides; holds it up to
the light, smells it, shakes it. The two men and the woman grow
more and more nervous._
FORMER POOR MAN. [_Extremely irritated._] For goodness' sake, open it
and read it.
FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Yes, yes, and don't be so long about it.
[VAIN WOMAN _simply stands pathetically and waits_. IMP _walks over
to his desk, hunts for a knife, finally finds one; looks letter
over again, then slowly slits the envelope and draws out letter,
which he reads silently to himself. They are breathlessly waiting._
IMP _whistles softly to himself_.
IMP. Well, what do you think of that!
FORMER POOR MAN. [_Excitedly._] What is it--why don't you tell us?
FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Pounding with his crutch on the floor._] Come,
come, don't keep me waiting like this.
IMP. [_Reads letter again, silently, chuckling._] All right. Here it is.
[_Reads._]
"MY DEAR IMP:
"I have tried faithfully for years to aid distressed humanity, but
they are an ungrateful lot of fools, and I wash my hands of them.
When this letter reaches you I will be on the high seas, and I am
never coming back. So write 'Finis' in the big old ledger of
miseries, and shut up shop, for the Exchange is closed--forever.
Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE."
[_They all stand dazed a moment. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _sensing that
something terrible has happened, rushes from one to the other,
saying: "What is it? What has happened?"_ IMP _gives her the letter
to read_.
FORMER POOR MAN. [_In a perfect frenzy._] My God! Indigestion all the
rest of my days.
VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading letter collapses in a chair, hysterically
sobbing out._] Deaf, always deaf! Oh, what shall I do!
FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Leaning heavily on his crutch and shaking his
free hand, clenched in anger._] This is an outrage. I am rich and have
influence, and I shall take steps to--to----
[IMP _laughs mockingly. The man looks down at his milk-spattered
clothes, his bandaged foot, and, letting his crutch fall to the
floor, sinks dejectedly into a chair, burying his face in his
hands._
[IMP _dangles his keys and opens the street-door, as an invitation
for them to go. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _is the first to start, moving
dazedly and breathing hard_. IMP _offers him the bottle of
indigestion tablets; the man grasps them, eagerly, tipping_ IMP,
_who chuckles as he pockets the money. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _takes
a tablet as he exits. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _bowed with sorrow, moves
slowly toward the door_. IMP _touches her arm and offers the
ear-trumpet. She accepts it, with a wild sob, tipping_ IMP, _who
again chuckles as he pockets the money. The last we see of the_
VAIN WOMAN, _she is trying to hold the ear-trumpet to her ear, and
exits, sobbing. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _still sits in his chair,
his head in his hands_. IMP _picks up the milk-can, and, tapping
the man not too gently on the shoulder, thrusts the milk-can at him
and makes a significant gesture, indicative of_--THIS WAY OUT. _The
man rises dejectedly, picks up his crutch, takes the milk-can, and
hobbles painfully toward the door._ IMP _doubles himself up in wild
Mephistophelian glee as the_
CURTAIN FALLS
SAM AVERAGE
BY
PERCY MACKAYE
_Sam Average_ is reprinted by special permission of Percy Mackaye. This
play first appeared in _Yankee Fantasies_, Duffield & Company, New York.
_Special Notice_
No public or private performance of this play--professional or
amateur--and no public reading of it for money may be given without the
written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. Persons who
desire to obtain such permission should communicate direct with the
author at his address, Harvard Club, 27 West 44th Street, New York
City.
PERCY MACKAYE
Percy Mackaye, who was born in New York City in 1875, is one of the few
Americans whose interest has been almost wholly in the theatre. As a
lecturer, writer, and champion of real art in drama, he has had few if
any equals. He inherited his interest in drama from his father, Steele
Mackaye, author of _Hazel Kirke_. He was educated at Harvard, where he
studied under Professor George Pierce Baker, and at Leipzig. He has
travelled extensively in Europe and at various times has resided in
Rome, Switzerland, and London. In 1914 Dartmouth conferred upon him the
honorary Master of Arts degree. At present he holds a fellowship in
dramatic literature in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio.
Mr. Mackaye's efforts in the dramatic field have been varied. Masques,
pageants, operas, and plays are to his credit. _The Canterbury
Pilgrims_, _The Scarecrow_, _Jeanne D'Arc_, _Mater_, _Anti-Matrimony_,
_Sanctuary_, _Saint Louis Masque_, and _Caliban_ are among his
better-known works.
In 1912 appeared his Yankee Fantasies, of which _Sam Average_ and
_Gettysburg_ are the more noteworthy.
In all of Mr. Mackaye's work he possesses what many dramatists lack--a
definite ideal. He aims at an artistic and literary effect. His _Sam
Average_ is a real contribution to American patriotic drama.
CHARACTERS
ANDREW
JOEL
ELLEN
SAM AVERAGE
SAM AVERAGE[D]
_An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, in the year 1814.
Night, shortly before dawn._
_On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood fire ruddies the
earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which forms, with
darkness, the scenic background._
_Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats
from its standard._
_Beside the fire_, ANDREW, _reclined, gazes at a small frame in his
hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied beside it_.
_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?
ANDREW. Life.
JOEL. Shucks!
ANDREW. [_To himself._] Living!
JOEL. [_Sauntering over left, listens._] Hear a rooster crow?
ANDREW. No. What are you doing?
JOEL. Tiltin' the flag over crooked in the dirt. That's our signal.
ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we buried it--buried
it in the dirt!
JOEL. She's to find us where the flag's turned down. I fixed that with
the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin' 's _her_ watchword for us.
ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel: that would have been better.
[_Rising._] Ah! [_He laughs painfully._
JOEL. Hush up, Andy! The nearest men ain't two rods away. You'll wake
'em. Pitch it low.
ANDREW. Don't be alarmed. I'm coward enough.
JOEL. 'Course, though, there ain't much danger. I'm sentinel this end,
and the sergeant has the tip at t'other. Besides, you may call it the
reg'lar thing. There's been two thousand deserters already in this
tuppenny-ha'penny war, and none on 'em the worse off. When a man don't
get his pay for nine months--well, he ups and takes his vacation. Why
not? When Nell joins us, we'll hike up the Niagara, cross over to
Tonawanda, and take our breakfast in Buffalo. By that time the boys here
will be marchin' away toward Lundy's Lane.
ANDREW. [_Walks back and forth, shivering._] I'm afraid.
JOEL. 'Fraid? Bosh!
ANDREW. I'm afraid to face----
JOEL. Face what? We won't get caught.
ANDREW. Your sister--my wife.
JOEL. Nell! Why, ain't she comin' here just a-purpose to get you? Ain't
there reason enough, Lord knows? Ain't you made up your mind to light
out home anyhow?
ANDREW. Yes. That's just what she'll never forgive me for. In her heart
she'll never think of me the same. For she knows as well as I what
pledge I'll be breaking--what sacred pledge.
JOEL. What you mean?
ANDREW. No matter, no matter; this is gush.
[_He returns to the fire and begins to fumble over the contents of
his knapsack._ JOEL _watches him idly_.
JOEL. One of _her_ curls?
ANDREW. [_Looking at a lock of hair in the firelight._] No; the baby's,
little Andy's. Some day they'll tell him how his father---- [_He winces,
and puts the lock away._
JOEL. [_Going toward the embankment._] Listen!
ANDREW. [_Ties up the package, muttering._] Son of a traitor!
JOEL. [_Tiptoeing back._] It's crowed--that's her.
[_Leaping to his feet_, ANDREW _stares toward the embankment where
the flag is dipped; then turns his back to it, closing his eyes and
gripping his hands_.
[_After a pause, silently the figure of a young woman emerges from
the dark and stands on the embankment. She is bareheaded and ill
clad._
[JOEL _touches_ ANDREW, _who turns and looks toward her. Silently
she steals down to him and they embrace_.
ANDREW. My Nell!
ELLEN. Nearly a year----
ANDREW. Now, at last!
ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy.
ANDREW. You're better?
ELLEN. Let's forget--just for now.
ANDREW. Is he grown much?
ELLEN. Grown? You should see him! But so ill! What could I do? You
see----
ANDREW. I know, I know.
ELLEN. The money was all gone. They turned me out at the old place, and
then----
ANDREW. I know, dear.
ELLEN. I got sewing, but when the smallpox----
ANDREW. I have all your letters, Nell. Come, help me to pack.
ELLEN. What! You're really decided----
JOEL. [_Approaching._] Hello, Sis!
ELLEN. [_Absently._] Ah, Joel; that you? [_Eagerly, following_ ANDREW
_to the knapsack_.] But, my dear----
ANDREW. Just these few things, and we're off.
ELLEN. [_Agitated._] Wait, wait! You don't know yet why I've
come--instead of writing.
ANDREW. I can guess.
ELLEN. But you can't; that's--what's so hard! I have to tell you
something, and then---- [_Slowly._] I must know from your own eyes, from
yourself, that you wish to do this, Andrew; that you think it is
_right_.
ANDREW. [_Gently._] I guessed that.
ELLEN. This is what I must tell you. It's not just the sickness, it's
not only the baby, not the money gone--and all that; it's--it's----
ANDREW. [_Murmurs._] My God!
ELLEN. It's what all that brings--the helplessness. I've been insulted.
Andy--[_Her voice breaks._] I want a protector.
ANDREW. [_Taking her in his arms, where she sobs._] There, dear!
ELLEN. [_With a low moan._] You know.
ANDREW. I know. Come, now; we'll go.
ELLEN. [_Her face lighting up._] Oh! and you _dare_! It's _right_?
ANDREW. [_Moving from her, with a hoarse laugh._] _Dare?_ Dare I be
damned by God and all his angels? Ha! Come, we're slow.
JOEL. Time enough.
ELLEN. [_Sinking upon_ JOEL'S _knapsack as a seat, leans her head on her
hands, and looks strangely at_ ANDREW.] I'd better have written, I'm
afraid.
ANDREW. [_Controlling his emotion._] Now, don't take it that way. I've
considered it all.
ELLEN. [_With deep quiet._] Blasphemously?
ANDREW. Reasonably, my brave wife. When I enlisted, I did so in a dream.
I dreamed I was called to love and serve our country. But that dream is
shattered. This sordid war, this political murder, has not one single
principle of humanity to excuse its bloody sacrilege. It doesn't deserve
my loyalty--our loyalty.
ELLEN. Are you saying this--for my sake? What of "God and his angels"?
ANDREW. [_Not looking at her._] If we had a just cause--a cause of
liberty like that in Seventy-six; if to serve one's country meant to
serve God and his angels--then, yes; a man might put away wife and
child. He might say: "I will not be a husband, a father; I will be a
patriot." But now--like this--tangled in a web of spiders--caught in a
grab-net of politicians--and you, you and our baby-boy, like this--hell
let in on our home--no, Country be cursed!
ELLEN. [_Slowly._] So, then, when little Andy grows up----
ANDREW. [_Groaning._] I say that the only thing----
ELLEN. I am to tell him----
ANDREW. [_Defiantly._] Tell him his father deserted his country, and
thanked God for the chance. [_Looking about him passionately._] Here!
[_He tears a part of the flag from its standard, and reaches it toward
her._] You're cold; put this round you.
[_As he is putting the strip of colored silk about her shoulders,
there rises, faint yet close by, a sound of fifes and flutes,
playing the merry march-strains of "Yankee Doodle."_
[_At the same time there enters along the embankment, dimly,
enveloped in a great cloak, a tall_ FIGURE, _which pauses beside
the standard of the torn flag, silhouetted against the first pale
streaks of the dawn_.
ELLEN. [_Gazing at_ ANDREW.] What's the matter?
ANDREW. [_Listening._] Who are they? Where is it?
JOEL. [_Starts, alertly._] He hears something.
ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak?
ELLEN. Andy----
JOEL. [_Whispers._] Ssh! Look out! We're spied on!
[_He points to the embankment._ ANDREW _and_ ELLEN _draw back_.
THE FIGURE. [_Straightening the flag-standard, and leaning on it._]
Desartin'?
ANDREW. [_Puts_ ELLEN _behind him_.] Who's there? The watchword!
THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks!
JOEL. [_To_ ANDREW.] He's on to us. Pickle him quiet, or it's court
martial! [_Showing a long knife._] Shall I give him this?
ANDREW. [_Taking it from him._] No. _I_ will.
ELLEN. [_Seizing his arm._] Andrew!
ANDREW. Let go.
[THE FIGURE, _descending into the intrenchment, approaches with
face muffled_. JOEL _draws_ ELLEN _away_. ANDREW _moves toward_ THE
FIGURE _slowly_. _They meet and pause._
ANDREW. You're a spy!
[_With a quick flash,_ ANDREW _raises the knife to strike, but
pauses, staring_. THE FIGURE, _throwing up one arm to ward the
blow, reveals--through the parted cloak--a glint of stars in the
firelight_.[E]
THE FIGURE. Steady, boys; I'm one of ye. The sergeant told me to drop
round.
JOEL. Oh, the sergeant! That's all right, then.
ANDREW. [_Dropping the knife._] Who are you?
THE FIGURE. Who be _I_? My name, ye mean? My name's Average--Sam
Average. Univarsal Sam, some o' my prophetic friends calls me.
ANDREW. What are you doing here--now?
THE FIGURE. Oh, tendin' to business.
JOEL. Tendin' to _other_ folks' business, eh?
THE FIGURE. [_With a touch of weariness._] Ye-es; reckon that _is_ my
business. Some other folks is me.
JOEL. [_Grimacing to_ ELLEN.] Cracked!
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!
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.
THE FIGURE. Some o' what?
ANDREW. Those--my pay.
THE FIGURE. [_Cheerfully._] So. _Would_ ye? [_Handing him the horn._]
Reckon that's enough?
ANDREW. [_Not taking it._] That's what I want to make sure of--first.
THE FIGURE. Oh! So ye're hesitatin'!
ANDREW. Yes; but I want you to help me decide. Pardon me, sir. You're a
stranger, yet somehow I feel I may ask your help. You've come just in
time.
THE FIGURE. Queer I should a-dropped round jest now, wa'n't it? S'posin'
we take a turn.
[_Together they walk toward the embankment. By the knapsack_ ELLEN
_finds the little frame_.
ELLEN. [_To herself._] My picture!
[_She looks toward_ ANDREW _affectionately_. JOEL, _lifting the
knapsack, beckons to her_.
JOEL. There's more stuff over here.
[_He goes off, right_; ELLEN _follows him_.
ANDREW. [_To_ THE FIGURE.] I should like the judgment of your
experience, sir. I can't quite see your face, yet you appear to be one
who has had a great deal of experience.
THE FIGURE. Why, consid'able some.
ANDREW. Did you--happen to fight in the late war for independence?
THE FIGURE. Happen to? [_Laughing quietly._] N-no, not fight; ye see--I
was paymaster.
ANDREW. But you went through the war?
THE FIGURE. Ye-es, oh, yes; I went through it. I took out my fust
reg'lar papers down to Philadelphie, in '76, seems like 'twas the fourth
day o' July. But I was paymaster afore that.
ANDREW. Tell me: I've heard it said there were deserters even in those
days, even from the roll-call of Washington. Is it true?
THE FIGURE. True, boy? Have ye ever watched a prairie-fire rollin'
toward ye, billowin' with flame and smoke, and seed all the midget
cowerin' prairie-dogs scootin' for their holes? Wall, that's the way I
watched Howe's army sweepin' crosst the Jarsey marshes, and seed the
desartin' little patriots, with their chins over their shoulders,
skedaddlin' home'ards.
ANDREW. What--the Americans!
THE FIGURE. All but a handful on 'em--them as weren't canines, ye might
say, but men. _They_ set a back-fire goin' at Valley Forge. Most on 'em
burnt their toes and fingers off, lightin' on't thar in the white frost,
but they stuck it through and saved--wall, the prairie-dogs.
ANDREW. But they--those others. What reason did they give to God and
their own souls for deserting?
THE FIGURE. To who?
ANDREW. To their consciences. What was their reason? It must have been a
noble one in '76. _Their_ reason _then_; don't you see, I must have it.
I must know what reason real heroes gave for their acts. You were there.
You can tell me.
THE FIGURE. _Real_ heroes, eh? Look around ye, then. To-day's the heroic
age, and the true brand o' hero is al'ays in the market. Look around ye!
ANDREW. What, here--in this war of jobsters, this petty campaign of
monstrous boodle?
THE FIGURE. Thar we be!
ANDREW. Why, here are only a lot of cowardly half-men, like me--lovers
of their own folks--their wives and babies at home. They'll make
sacrifices for them. But real men like our fathers in '76: they looked
in the beautiful face of Liberty, and sacrificed to _her_!
THE FIGURE. Our fathers, my boy, was jest as fond o' poetry as you be.
They talked about the beautiful face o' Liberty same's you; but when the
hom'made eyes and cheeks of their sweethearts and young uns took to
cryin', they desarted their beautiful goddess and skun out hom'.
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?
ANDREW. [_Ardently, drawing closer._] And saw his face!
[_Drawing his cowl lower and taking_ ANDREW'S _arm_, THE FIGURE
_leads him up on the embankment, where they stand together_.
THE FIGURE. Hark a-yonder!
ANDREW. [_Listening._] Is it thunder?
THE FIGURE. Have ye forgot?
ANDREW. The voice! I remember now--Niagara!
[_With awe_, ANDREW _looks toward_ THE FIGURE, _who stands shrouded
and still, facing the dawn. From far off comes a sound as of
falling waters, and with that--a deep murmurous voice, which seems
to issue from_ THE FIGURE'S _cowl_.
THE VOICE. I am the Voice that was heard of your fathers, and your
fathers' fathers. Mightier--mightier, I shall be heard of your sons. I
am the Million in whom the one is lost, and I am the One in whom the
millions are saved. Their ears shall be shut to my thunders, their eyes
to my blinding stars. In shallow streams they shall tap my life-blood
for gold. With dregs of coal and of copper they shall pollute me. In
the mystery of my mountains they shall assail me; in the majesty of my
forests, strike me down; with engine and derrick and millstone, bind me
their slave. Some for a lust, some for a love, shall desert me. One and
one, for his own, shall fall away. Yet one and one and one shall return
to me for life; the deserter and the destroyer shall re-create me.
Primeval, their life-blood is mine. My pouring waters are passion, my
lightnings are laughter of man. I am the One in whom the millions are
saved, and I am the Million in whom the one is lost.
ANDREW. [_Yearningly, to_ THE FIGURE.] Your face!
[THE FIGURE _turns majestically away_. ANDREW _clings to him_.
ANDREW. Your face!
[_In the shadow of the flag_ THE FIGURE _unmuffles for an instant_.
[_Peering, dazzled_, ANDREW _staggers back, with a low cry, and,
covering his eyes, falls upon the embankment_.
[_From away, left, the thrumming of a jew's-harp is heard, playing
"The Star-Spangled Banner."_
[_From the right enter_ JOEL _and_ ELLEN.
[_Descending from the embankment_, THE FIGURE _stands apart_.
JOEL. Well, Colonel Average, time's up.
ELLEN. [_Seeing_ ANDREW'S _prostrate form, hastens to him_.] Andy!
What's happened?
ANDREW. [_Rising slowly._] Come here. I'll whisper it.