says he:

``Aw, you air the feller whut foun'
the ore?''

Ole Tom--makin' like he was Abe,
mind ye--jes whispers: ``Thar hain't
none thar.''

Stranger, the feller mos' fell off'n his
hoss. ``Whut?'' says he. Ole Tom kep'
a-whisperin': ``Thar hain't no coal--
no nothing; ole Tom Perkins made me
tell t'other furriner them lies.''

Well, sir, the feller WAS mad. ``Jes
whut I tol' that fool podner of mine,''
he says, an' he pull out a dollar an' gives
hit to Tom. Tom jes sticks out his
han' with his thum' turned in jes so,
an' the furriner says, ``Well, ef you can't
talk, you kin make purty damn good
signs''; but he forks over four mo' dollars
(he 'lowed ole Tom had saved him a
pile o' money), an' turns his hoss an'
pulls up agin. He was a-gittin' the land
so durned cheap that I reckon he jes
hated to let hit go, an' he says, says he:
``Well, hain't the groun' rich? Won't hit
raise no tabaccy nur corn nur nothin'?''