The caravan master’s offer came at breakfast, which was Pell’s time and Pell’s opinion. She had been slicing the loaves since the candle-clock, and she had the first tray out on the board and the knife still warm in her hand when the Warden came down the Kitchen steps with the caravan master at his heels and a look on his face like a boy who has been sent to fetch the milk and has lost the jug.
“Iron,” the Warden said. “Eleven bars of wagon iron. From the third cart.”
“I know what it is,” said Pell. “I can see it from here. It is the axle-plates and the chain-links they cannot use on the road, and you are going to tell me that the caravan master wants bread for them, and I am going to tell you the price of bread.”
The caravan master took off his hat. He had a long, sad face, and it was greyer this morning than it had been in the gate yard, and there was a ring of dirt along his jaw where he had not washed. “I have a boy asleep in my wagon,” he said, “who has not yet told me what he saw. I would like to be gone from this place before he does. I will trade the iron for what you can give.”
