"Get up closer," another urged with a laugh.
"Ugh! I'm as close as I want to be now. He smells like a pig-pen."
"Why not try that other old cuss," the third suggested, motioning to Zeb. "Surely he's not deaf."
Acting on this advice, the spokesman looked at Abner, and pointed to Zeb, who had just come out of the woodshed. But Abner shook his head.
"He's deaf as a post," was the reply. "He can't hear nuthin'. Ye'll have to talk to me."
Tom fetched a big sigh, looked around in despair, and mopped his perspiring brow.
"What in the world are we to do?" he panted. "We must find out if he will sell, and how much he wants. Dimock's support depends upon our getting this place. I'd let him go to the devil, where he belongs, if election wasn't so near."
"Write out your questions, Tom," came the suggestion. "That's the easiest way."
"Why, sure. We might have thought of it sooner."
Whipping out his note-book and pencil he scribbled down a few lines, and handed the book to Abner. The latter took it, and studied it for a few seconds.