"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"
"A—joke. Who are you, anyway?"
"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."
"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"
"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"
"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer all—what d'ye want?"
"I heard you had a house to sell."
"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."
"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take for the old Burnham place?"
The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.