“Not by a d—day’s job—not a single day,” sorrowfully replied Hay.
The Deacon’s pious ear had been shocked by the young man’s imperfectly concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man from the path of rectitude.
“I’m fixin’ my cow-shed—might p’raps give ye a job on’t. ‘Spose ye’d do it cheap, seein’ how dull ev’ry thin’ is?”
The sad eyes of Mrs. Hay grew bright in an instant. Her husband’s heart jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so he said, as calmly as possible:
“Three dollars is reg’lar pay.”
The Deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.
“Too much,” said he; “I’d better hire a common lab’rer at a dollar ’n a half, an’ boss him myself. It’s only a cow-shed, ye know.”
“Guess, though, ye won’t want the nails druv no less p’ticler, will ye, Deac’n?” inquired Hay. “But I tell yer what I’ll do—I’ll throw off fifty cents a day.”
“Two dollars ort to be enough, George,” resumed the Deacon. “Carpenterin’s pooty work, an’ takes a sight of headpiece sometimes, but there’s no intellec’ required to work on a cow-shed. Say two dollars, an’ come along.”
The carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied: