"Jist as much as you'd expect, an' that's nuthin'," was the quick reply.
Abner's right hand was now in his trousers pocket, firmly gripping the ten dollar bill which had been given to him by the agent. Then he drew it forth, and flung it upon the work-bench.
"Take that, Zeb, an' give it to Widder Denton," he ordered. "It's been burnin' me pocket until me skin is scorched. There, don't ask me where I got it," he added, as Zeb started to speak. "I've got enough lies scratched down aginst me already. But I do feel like havin' a good fight."
"Fight! What de ye want to fight fer?" Zeb asked in astonishment.
"'Cause I'm ugly, that's why. The sight of that ten-spot makes me want to hit somebody."
"Well, ye'd better git out of this if that's the way ye feel. I've no inclination or time to fight to-day."
"An' ye don't want a scrap over the Ten Lost Tribes? I've given ye plenty of chances. Now, look, Zeb, who was the great-great-great-grandfather of the man who lost the Ten Tribes in the first place? Kin ye tell me that?"
Such a question in the past had always stirred Zebedee to his inmost depths. But now, instead of launching forth in defence of his pet theory, he leaned against the work-bench, folded his arms, and faced his visitor.
"Abner," he began, "I've been thinkin'."
"Well, that's encouragin'," was the reply. "A bit out of the ordinary, eh? I thought there was somethin' wrong with ye."