“I haven't got it, George! There's your draft again, the bank wouldn't take it.”
A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for the affront as the disappointment.
“They wouldn't take it?” gasped he. “Ay, Will, our credit is down, the whole town knows our rent is overdue. I suppose you know money must be got some way.”
“Any way is better than threshing out new wheat at such a price,” said William sullenly. “Ask a loan of a neighbor.”
“Oh, Will,” appealed George, “to ask a loan of a neighbor, and be denied—it is bitterer than death. You can do it.”
“I! Am I master here?” retorted the younger. “The farm is not farmed my way, nor ever was. No! Give me the plow-handle and I'll cut the furrow, George.”
“No doubt, no doubt!” said the other, very sharply, “you'd like to draw the land dry with potato crops, and have fourscore hogs snoring in the farmyard; that's your idea of a farm. Oh! I know you want to be elder brother. Well, I tell'ee what do; you kill me first, Bill Fielding, and then you will be elder brother, and not afore.”
Here was a pretty little burst of temper! We have all our sore part.
“So be it, George!” replied William, “you got us into the mud, elder brother, you get us out of the mire!”
George subdued his tone directly.