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.