“Would it?” said Tom, scratching his head, wrinkling his brows, and eying the deacon incredulously “Why, of course it would.”
“Well, then,” said the deacon, “I’ll do it. As long as the brick business is good you can work at haulin’ from seven to twelve, an’ one to six. Don’t you s’pose you could put two or three hundred more brick on a load without hurtin’ the hosses? I don’t want to lose any more’n I can help, you know, by cuttin’ down your time. Rainy days I’ll keep you busy at the store some way; them’s the days farmers can’t do much on the farm, so they bring their butter and eggs to town, and there’s a sight of measurin’ an’ weighin’ to be done. An’ after the brick season’s over I’ll find you somethin’ to do at the store. You can put the pork-house an’ warehouse to rights before the packin’ season begins, an’ you can weigh the corn an’ wheat an’ oats an’ pork when they come in, and mend bags, and work in the pork-house three months out of the six. You wouldn’t object to takin’ night-spells in the pork-house instead of day-spells, would you, when we have to work day and night? Night-wages costs us most, you know, an’ you ought to help us make up what we lose on you when there’s nothin’ doin’.”
“Just as you say,” replied Tom. He did not clasp the deacon in a grateful embrace, for the deacon had, in his thrifty way, prevented Tom from feeling especially grateful. The owner of the brick-yard had intimated that the new arrangement was for Tom’s especial benefit, but his later remarks caused this feature of the arrangement to speedily disappear from view. But, although not doubting for an instant that the deacon meant to get his money back with usury, Tom felt his heart growing lighter every moment. At the same time he felt angry at the deacon’s occasional suggestions that the arrangements were partly of the nature of charity. So he replied:
“Just as you say; but, deacon, I ain’t the feller that wants money for work I don’t do, you know that. The arrangement suits me first-rate, but I’m goin’ to work hard for my money; you can bet all your loose change on that.”
“Thomas!” ejaculated the deacon sternly, “I am not in the habit of betting. It’s a careless, foolish, wasteful, sinful way of using money.”
“That’s so,” replied Tom reflectively; “unless,” he continued, “you’re one of the winnin’ kind.”
“It is a business I don’t intend to go into, so the less said of it the better. So my offer suits you, does it?”
“I’ll shake hands on it,” replied Tom, extending his hand.
“Wait a moment,” said the deacon, retiring his own right hand to a conservative position behind his back. “If it suits you,” continued the deacon impressively, “you agree to stick to your pledge; no foolin’ with whisky again, mind.”
“Nary drop,” said Tom, with great emphasis. “Ten minutes ago I wouldn’t have given a pewter dime for my chance of sticking it out through the day, but now I wouldn’t give a cent for a barr’l full of ten-year-old rye.”