Fifteen bags we got off the four acres, and the storekeeper undertook to
sell it. Corn was then at 12 shillings and 14 shillings per bushel,
and Dad expected a big cheque.
Every day for nearly three weeks he trudged over to the store (five miles)
and I went with him. Each time the storekeeper would shake his head and
say "No word yet."
Dad could n't understand. At last word did come. The storekeeper was
busy serving a customer when we went in, so he told Dad to "hold on a bit".
Dad felt very pleased--so did I.
The customer left. The storekeeper looked at Dad and twirled a piece of
string round his first finger, then said--"Twelve pounds your corn
cleared, Mr. Rudd; but, of course" (going to a desk) "there's that account
of yours which I have credited with the amount of the cheque--that brings
it down now to just three pound, as you will see by the account."
Dad was speechless, and looked sick.
He went home and sat on a block and stared into the fire with his chin
resting in his hands, till Mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and
asked him kindly what was the matter. Then he drew the storekeeper's bill
from his pocket, and handed it to her, and she too sat down and gazed
into the fire.
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