He sat down and began to turn the grindstone.  The deacon bore on heavily, and this made it hard turning.  His arms ached, and the perspiration stood on his brow.  It was certainly pretty hard work, but then he must be prepared for that, and after all he was earning money for his mother.  Still the time did seem long.  The scythe was so intolerably dull that it took a long time to make any impression upon it.

“Kinder hard turnin’, ain’t it?” said the deacon.

“Yes,” said Andy.

“This scythe ain’t been sharpened for ever so long.  It’s as dull as a hoe.”

However, time and patience work wonders, and at length the deacon, after a careful inspection of the blade of the scythe, released Andy from his toil of an hour and a half, with the remark: 

“I reckon that’ll do.”

He put the scythe in its place and came out.

Andy lingered respectfully for the remuneration of his labor.

“He ought to give me a quarter,” he thought.  But the deacon showed no disposition to pay him, and Andy became impatient.

“I guess I’ll be goin’,” he said.

“All right.  I ain’t got anything more for you to do,” said the deacon.

“I’ll take my pay now,” said Andy, desperately.

“Pay?  What for?” inquired the deacon, innocently.

“For turning the grindstone.”

“You don’t mean ter say you expect anything for that?” said the deacon in a tone of surprise.

“Yes I do,” said Andy.  “I can’t work an hour and a half for nothing.”

“I didn’t expect to pay for such a trifle,” said the old man, fumbling in his pocket.

Finally he brought out two cents, one of the kind popularly known as bung-towns, which are not generally recognized as true currency.

“There,” said he in an injured tone.  “I’ll pay you, though I didn’t think you’d charge anything for any little help like that.”

Andy looked at the proffered compensation with mingled astonishment and disgust.

“Never mind,” he said.  “You can keep it.  You need it more’n I do, I’m thinkin’!”

“Don’t you want it?” asked the deacon, surprised.

“No, I don’t.  I’m a poor boy, but I don’t work an hour and a half for two cents, one of ’em bad.  I’d rather take no pay at all.”

“That’s a cur’us boy,” said the deacon, slowly sliding the pennies back into his pocket.  “I calc’late he expected more just for a little job like that.  Does he think I’m made of money?”

As Andy went out of the yard, the idea dawned upon the deacon that he had saved two cents, and his face was luminous with satisfaction.

CHAPTER VI THE TWO OLD MAIDS