He smiled as he saw the hands of the clock pointing to nine-thirty. It was long after the Deacon's bedtime.

CHAPTER XIII

_The Sleepers_

It was twenty minutes of ten before a sleepy and decidedly irritable voice responded in answer to Donaldson's cheery h.e.l.lo. There was little of Christian spirit to be detected in it.

"Is this Deacon Staples?"

"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed at this time of night?"

"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"

"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"

"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"

"A--joke. Who are you, anyway?"

"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."

"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"

"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"

"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer all--what d'ye want?"

"I heard you had a house to sell."

"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."

"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take for the old Burnham place?"

The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.

"Where be you?" he demanded.

"In New York."

"In--see here, I rec'gnize your voice; you 're Billy Harkins down to the corner. Ye need n't think ye can play your jokes on me."

"We 've only two hours and a quarter left," warned Donaldson.

"Well, ye need n't think I 'm goin' to stand here in the cold fer thet long."

"It's warm 'nuff here," Donaldson answered genially.

"Maybe ye 've gut more on than I have."

"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present."

"They ain't neither, down here. Our women are in bed, where they oughter be."

"Not at this hour! Why, the evening is young yet. But how much will you take?"

"Wal, th' place is wuth 'bout two thousand dollars."

Donaldson realized that it was the magic word "New York" which had so suddenly inflated the price. The deacon was taking a chance that this might be some wealthy New Yorker looking for a country home.

"Do you call that a fair price?" he asked.

"The house is in good condition, and thar 's over three acres of good gra.s.s land and ten acres of pasture with pooty trees in it."

"Just so. I 'm not able to look the place over, so I 'll have to depend upon your word for it. You consider that a fair price for the property?"

"Well, o' course, fer cash I might knock off fifty."

"I see. Then nineteen hundred and fifty is an honest value of the whole estate?"

"I 'low as much."

"Deacon."

"Yes" (eagerly).

"You 're a member of the church."

"Yes" (lamely).

"And you certainly would n't deal unfairly with a neighbor on Sunday?"

"What--"

"It's thirteen minutes of ten on a Sat.u.r.day night. That's pretty near Sunday, is n't it?"

"What of it?" (suspiciously).

"Remember that advertis.e.m.e.nt you inserted in the Berringdon Gazette?"

There was a silence of a minute.

"Wall," faltered the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted the farm fer a summer place. It's wuth more fer that."

"It is n't worth a cent more. You simply tried to steal two hundred dollars."

"Ye mean ter say--"