“Are you ready to make your settlement for the rent of the corn land, Major Carey?”
This was a bombshell. There were futile and foolish arguments about “favor to Mrs. Marshall to prevent the place going to weeds,” “high taxes,” “fence repairs,” and “poor crops.”
“Take ’em all out,” retorted Morey, sharply. “I only want what is ours.”
Major Carey had to beg for time until morning to consult his receipts and farm books. Another meeting was arranged for the next day at ten o’clock.
At that time, taking his own unquestioned figures and allowing him half the crops for two years—deducting forty acres of waste land and an array of expenses that made Mr. Betts smile, Major Carey was compelled to concede that there was a surplus of $4,160 to be divided.
Morey’s pencil was out.
“We owe you,” he said sharply, “$14,092.50. You owe us $2,080. The difference is $12,012.50. Here’s your money.”
The disconcerted planter sat for a spell as if in a trance.
“How about this year’s corn crop?” he murmured at last.